


figure skates and hockey blades

by effervescentlies



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Hockey, Alternate Universe - Skating, Banter, Falling In Love, Figure Skater GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Flirting, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Getting to Know Each Other, Hockey, Hockey Player Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Ice Skating, Identity Reveal, M/M, Secret Identity, Skating, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:34:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28399290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/effervescentlies/pseuds/effervescentlies
Summary: George is a talented figure skater who moves from England to Canada on a scholarship.Dream is the rowdy captain of the university hockey team. Unbeknownst to George, he’s also Clay, an exceptionally bright and mysterious English major.But what George doesn't know won't hurt him, right?
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 276
Kudos: 918





	1. roommates and new friends

**Author's Note:**

> Everything in this work is completely fictional and is a result of me having too much time on my hands. All characters are based off of online personas and are not meant to be a reflection of anyone's real life.
> 
> I don't know much about hockey or figure skating but I did quite a bit a research to make this believable, please let me know if there are any mistakes!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading -- enjoy!

If George knew moving across the world was going to be this difficult, perhaps he wouldn’t have considered it at all.

He’s standing on the steps of his new home for the next few years — a sturdy, towering building constructed with large pale bricks and ornate carvings — lugging a heavy, black suitcase with a backpack slung across his shoulders. Surrounding the building is a well-kept lawn and century-old trees, proudly providing shade to the groups of students huddled in their shadows.

Just to the left of the heavy oak doors leading within the building is a glimmering golden plaque that reads _Amana Hall._ George looks down at his welcome package, a mess of multi-coloured papers gripped tight in his right arm, and pulls out the sheet indicating which residence he’s supposed to be living in. This is the right place; his residence, his home away from home for the rest of his three years of university.

In his efforts to slide the paper back into the stack, a pamphlet falls to the ground with a light _smack._ As George bends down to pick it up, his eyes gloss over its cover. There’s an image of an elegant figure skater in the middle of her routine, the spotlight above her illuminating the turquoise sparkles of her outfit. _Northern University Figure Skating Club,_ the title reads, and the corners of George’s mouth twitch up a little. 

This is why he’s here in Canada, why he transferred to this terrifying new school in the first place.

At the age of five, George went on the ice for the very first time bundled up in a puffy blue jacket on a snowy December evening. At the age of seven, he pressed his face up to the plexiglass at his local ice rink after his weekly skating lessons and watched the figure skaters practice their routines, gliding, leaping, and twirling across the ice. 

At the age of thirteen, George was one of those figure skaters.

George sets the pamphlet neatly on top of the stack and grips the door to the building, swinging it open and dragging himself and his hulking suitcase inside. He’s meant to be sharing a room with someone in room 316, and after a quick glance at the hall’s directory, George knows exactly where to go.

The door to George’s dorm room is faded and worn, a testament to the old age of the university, but the brass numbers on it unmistakably read _316._ With a deep breath, George reaches a shaky hand out towards the door handle.

A gust of air blows George’s neat brown hair to the side as the door swings open with force and he’s greeted with the surprised face of another man in front of him. His eyes gloss over George’s face, and George watches as the other runs a hand through his dark hair. His shocked expression quickly morphs to one of realization.

“You must be my new roommate,” the man says, holding out a hand. “I was wondering when you were arriving. I’m Sapnap.”

George shakes his hand. “I’m George.”

Sapnap steps aside to let him in, holding the door wide open for George to pull his suitcase in behind him. The dorm is, as George expected, small. To the right of the entrance is a small complete bathroom, and to the left is a closet the two roommates are meant to share. In the main area of the dorm are two twin beds and two wooden desks, a bed and desk occupying each side of the room. The left side’s clearly been lived in for a while now; the plain grey comforter on the bed is bunched up by the foot of the bed, and the desk is covered in various notes and stationery. Above the bed is an unfamiliar flag that covers part of the yellow-tinted wall.

“Yeah, sorry about the mess. That’s just my side though, so you’ll be sleeping here,” Sapnap says, pointing to the right side of the room. “Do you need any help unpacking?”

George sets his suitcase down on the floor with a _thud_ and struggles to unzip it. The suitcase is packed to the brim, the zipper pulled tight, to the point where George wouldn’t be surprised if it spontaneously exploded. “Yeah, actually, thanks.”

Sapnap nods and crosses the room. “Where are you from?” he asks innocently.

“London,” George replies, pulling out his bedsheets. “England."

“England to Canada,” Sapnap marvels, astonished. “Why’d you move?”

“I was offered a scholarship here for my figure skating,” says George, smiling slightly, a light laugh peeking behind his words. He pulls out a pair of impeccably clean, creamy white figure skates from his suitcase. Blue skate guards shield the blades from nicks and scratches. Sapnap nods in understanding.

George continues. “I was supposed to transfer here last week on the first day of classes like everyone else, but things got mixed up at the airport. What about you?” he asks, partly out of politeness, partly out of a genuine interest.

Sapnap grins as he jabs a thumb back at the flag above his bed, illuminated by the morning sunlight streaming in through the window on the back wall. “Texas, baby. Best state in the world. I moved up north to play hockey and study computer science.”

“Oh, me too,” George says, surprised, putting his skates down with care. “I’m studying computer science too, I mean.”

It’s awkward between them, as all George’s new friendships are. Predictably, after spending most of his teenage years either diligently practicing his figure skating or hunched over lines of code on his computer, he isn’t the best at making friends. 

Luckily, Sapnap simply ignores George’s nervousness and surges forward, itching to make friends with his new roommate.

“Dude, let me see your schedule. Do we have any classes together?”

George heads to his desk and fumbles with the welcome package until he sees his schedule. “Uh, it’s right here,” he answers, handing the flimsy paper over to Sapnap.

Sapnap’s eyes light up as he skims over the paper. “We’ve got algebra together! It’s the first class of the day and it starts in like an hour, so we need to hurry. I’ll take you there. This place is kinda confusing if you don’t know where you’re going.”

George nods and quickens his pace, shoving his toiletries into the bathroom and his school supplies into his backpack with Sapnap’s help. By the time he’s done unpacking, the clock announces that they’ve only got about fifteen minutes to spare before class starts.

“Algebra’s ridiculously boring,” declares Sapnap as the pair briskly walk to the lecture hall. “But maybe you’ll find it interesting, I don’t know.”

George grins and takes a moment to think. “I think I like algebra,” he replies. The path to the lecture hall is, luckily, short — following the winding cobblestone paths and wrought iron lampposts, it’s just a few minutes away from their dorm.

“You’re weird,” says Sapnap, lightly punching George’s shoulder playfully. “That’s weird.” 

Before George gets a chance to respond, they’re already staring at the entrance to the lecture hall. Sapnap holds the door open for him and gestures for him to go inside. 

“After you,” he says.

* * *

Algebra wasn’t nearly as boring as Sapnap had expressed it was. Perhaps that was a result of George spending the entire class confused at what he had missed and furiously jotting down reminders for himself to re-read the course syllabus, because _clearly_ he had missed something.

The two roommates are sitting at a small table outside of one of the many dining halls scattered across campus. An umbrella overhead shields them from the sun and a gentle breeze sweeps through, occasionally cooling them from the early September heat. Empty paper plates and plastic cutlery are stacked atop lunch trays shoved to the side.

Sapnap points his much too short pencil down at George’s notebook. “So here, you don’t want to look at what’s in the brackets yet. Try —”

A tanned hand claps down on Sapnap’s shoulder, who visibly jolts with surprise. “Sapnap!”

Sapnap whips around with a smile on his face. “Clay!” he exclaims, and shifts aside to make room for the new arrival. 

“Hi,” greets Clay, sliding onto the bench. His light green eyes meet George’s dark ones, and he tilts his head slightly in confusion. “Who’re you?”

“I’m George,” he says, reaching a hand over the table. “I’m Sapnap’s new roommate. I just moved here.”

Clay shakes George’s hand politely, yet with a firm grip. He’s wearing the university’s hoodie, branded with the school’s name and lion mascot, and his tawny hair is nearly long enough to reach the tops of his ears. 

“It’s nice to meet you,” Clay says once their hands have broken apart. 

George smiles politely. “You too,” he affirms. 

Clay looks down at George’s papers and frowns. “Algebra?”

“Yeah, I missed the first week of classes so Sapnap’s just trying to help me catch up.”

Clay spins the notebook to get a better look and frowns. “Well, I mean you _could_ do it that way, but it’s way quicker if you just—”

“Oh _shut up_ ,” groans Sapnap in a terrible imitation of an English accent. “You’re such a smartass.”

George raises an eyebrow. “You’re studying computer science too?”

Clay purses his lips and twiddles with a pen in his hand as he stares down at George’s work. “No, English. Creative writing. I used to do a lot of coding and took a lot of classes in high school though, so I know a lot about computer science already.”

George’s eyes widen and he bites his lower lip in thought. He’d spent most of his education at the ice rink, sat in the stands before practice writing his English essays by hand or reviewing his lessons in physics before the next day’s unit test. For him, taking extra classes was out of the question.

“Here,” says Clay, spinning the book back around. “Don’t listen to this idiot, he probably knows less than you do. What you’re meant to do here is—”

“You are such a smartass,” Sapnap interjects, “actually such a smartass. Look at me, I’m Clay, I know _everything_. Give it to me,” he orders, snatching the pen out of Clay’s grasp. 

The rest of lunch flies by in a flurry of note-taking, laughter, and a great deal of bickering. Before George knows it, it’s a quarter past one and he’s got to go to his programming course.

George dumps his trash into a nearby bin and sets his tray on top. “I’ll see you guys around. Thanks for helping me with my work and all that,” he tells Sapnap and Clay, who are standing nearby waiting.

Waving goodbye perhaps a bit too enthusiastically, George heads down the path and sighs as he remembers his class schedule. An avalanche of classes and coursework is waiting for him just a few moments ahead. 

This is going to be a long day. 

* * *

“Holy _shit_ , I’m finally done,” George breathes out, slumping over his desk and running his hands through his hair. He’s spent the past five hours holed up in his room trying to catch up on his work, and it’s finally paid off.

“Congratulations,” voices Sapnap from across the room. He’s lounging on his bed, reading a zombie apocalypse comic of some sorts.

George sours. “How did you finish all your work so fast?”

Sapnap pushes his comic down to get a good look at George, who’s resting his chin on the desk and staring at Sapnap with begrudging eyes. “Work faster,” Sapnap says, flipping his comic back up and covering his face.

A groan escapes George’s lips as he stretches in his seat, grabbing the back of his desk chair. “Whatever,” he sighs, “I’m going out.”

“Out where?”

“Ice rink,” answers George, getting up to grab his skating bag from the closet where he’d stored it earlier.

“It’s ten at night,” Sapnap says. “The rink’s open, but like — aren’t you tired?”

George waves a hand of dismissal. “It’s fine. I’ve skated later than this before.” He throws a dark crewneck on and heads to the bathroom to change his jeans out for black thermal pants. “I’ll be back later,” he says, one hand on the doorknob, the other tightly grasping the strap of his duffle bag.

“You better not wake me up when you get back,” Sapnap calls out as George shuts the door behind him.

* * *

The ice rink is chilly and George can nearly see his breath when he exhales, but it feels like home.

His skating bag is wide open next to him on the bleachers, a pair skate guards thrown somewhere inside. George is hunched over, expertly lacing up his skates from muscle memory. He flexes his feet, checking for comfort and security before standing up and stretching his stiff muscles in preparation.

George hasn’t skated in a little over a week, what with all the stress and excitement from moving, which is far too long for his liking. Back in England, he was on the ice nearly every day of the week, committing his routines to memory and perfecting his jumps. 

He steps out onto the ice confidently and closes the gate behind him, which sounds out with a loud bang. This ice rink is a bit smaller than he’s used to and is covered in bright markings — it is shared with the hockey team, after all — but it still feels familiar nonetheless. 

Overhead, bright lights shine onto the shimmering ice. George’s pale cheeks flush pink with the cold as he starts gliding across the ice, doing quick laps around the edge of the rink. His legs fall into a steady rhythm of left and right, back and forth, speeding him up.

It’s freeing; the feeling of the cold air whizzing past George’s face as he practices his smooth footwork across the ice, the feeling of weightlessness as he leaps into a simple toe loop jump, the feeling of euphoria when his skate’s blade hits the ice and he lands perfectly, gliding away.

George is grinning wildly now, confident and cocky in his abilities. He can almost hear music in his ears, blaring the songs he’s done his favourite routines to. Humming, he skates into a step sequence, the sound of his skates hitting the ice in time with the melody in his head. 

The song starts building, getting more and more intense by the second. George shifts, lifting his right leg to effortlessly launch himself into a treacherous axel jump.

He’s spinning mid-air in slow-motion, completing one, two, _three_ whole rotations, the music roaring in his head reaching its crescendo, when a loud _bang_ distracts him from his jump. George turns his body towards the sound instinctively, and before he knows it his right toe pick has caught the surface of the ice and he stumbles, landing sprawled across the ground.

Pain courses through his body, at first numbing and cooling from the ice, then severe and jolting. George can hear another loud bang, the sound of the rink’s gate closing, and the swish of blades across the ice moving closer towards him. Picking himself up off the ground, he gets a good look at the source of the noise. 

There’s a man in a bright sage green hockey jersey, bright white helmet, and heavy-looking black hockey skates quickly making his way across the ice with a long wooden hockey stick in hand. As George dusts himself off, the man stops sharply just inches away from him, sending bits of ice flying across the rink.

“You ruined my triple axel,” grumbles George, his legs aching in pain. “Those are so hard to land, I — I’ve never landed one before and I nearly just did.”

“Sorry about that,” says the hockey player, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. His voice is slightly muffled by his helmet. “Are you okay?”

“I mean, I’ll bruise, but I’ll be fine.”

The hockey player laughs, but his smile’s impossible to be seen. George peers up curiously at the man’s helmet. It’s a clean white all the way around, save for a few scratches, but the face shield which is normally a clear plastic is tinted a dark black.

“I saw you land that other jump though,” the man starts, “and I saw you doing those steps. You’re really, really good.”

George smiles, all teeth, the corners of his eyes crinkling up slightly. “Wanna see me do it again?”

The hockey player nods, and George skates forward towards the center of the rink. He starts on the back outside edge of his right foot and launches himself into the toe loop jump again, twirling in the air and landing on the opposite foot.

George skates back over to the hockey player, who’s clapping at the display, and does loops around him. The back of the hockey jersey spells out _DREAM_ in big, blocky white letters above the number twelve.

“Dream? That’s your last name?” asks George, coming to a stop in front of him.

“It’s more of a nickname, really,” says the man, fiddling with his hockey stick. “Everyone on the hockey team calls me that when we’re on the ice.”

George blinks. “Can I call you that?”

Dream smiles under his helmet. “Yeah, of course you can,” he says, then clears his throat, “I’m guessing you’re part of the figure skating club?”

“I am,” George says, “I just moved here today. My name’s George.” He rolls his sleeve up and offers an ice cold hand.

Dream hesitates, and there’s a moment of confusion where George thinks he’s just going to leave him hanging. Then, slowly, he pulls off one of his gloves and reciprocates the handshake with a loose grip but a warm hand, despite the cold.

“Dream,” he says, slow and reluctant. “I’m normally here at night practicing drills by myself.”

“What kind of drills?” 

“Stuff like stick handling and working with the puck,” Dream throws his hockey stick back and forth between his hands, a pendulum in time with his heartbeat.

George nods despite not fully understanding. “We can share for tonight. I’ll take this side, you’ll take the other?”

Dream gives a quick thumbs-up and the two split apart to their respective sides. George decides to avoid the triple axel for the rest of the day and to instead focus on his Salchow, while Dream puts a few sticks on the ground and expertly maneuvers himself and his puck around them.

The puck slides across the ice in circles, pushed by the force of his hockey stick. Dream hums, barely looking at his puck anymore as he watches George from across the rink; he’s practicing the same jump over and over, beaming wide when he lands it just right and cursing quietly to himself when he doesn’t complete enough revolutions in the air. 

It’s a little past eleven at night when George has to stifle a yawn in the middle of his sit spin and decides it’s best he heads home.

“You’re leaving?” says Dream, his voice echoing slightly through the rink.

“I’m just getting a bit tired,” says George, undoing his laces. “And I’ve got to wake up early for class tomorrow.”

“Oh,” Dream voices. “I’ll see you around then,”

George’s skates are now carefully wiped down and with their guards covering the blades and stored safely in his duffle bag. With a smile and a wave goodbye, he turns and opens the door to leave.

“See you around.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic idea has been in the back of my brain for days so i finally sat down and wrote it! i got the inspiration from a [hockey boy dream fanart](https://twitter.com/shtbexan/status/1340866186234322946?s=20/) i saw on twitter by [shtbexan](https://twitter.com/shtbexan) (go check out their art, it's gorgeous) and a [figure skater versus hockey player tiktok](https://www.tiktok.com/@britanniegrenier/video/6909161573793795334) i saw on my fyp out of chance. 
> 
> this is my ao3 debut so i hope it's okay! i'll be honest and say that this is my first time writing anything creative in a very very long time. hopefully you enjoyed, and if you did please leave a kudos or comment -- it'd make my day! :]


	2. biographies and hockey practice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I can’t hear you very well under the helmet. Why don’t you just take it off?”
> 
> “If I take off my helmet, George, I lose all of my mysterious hockey boy persona.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'd like to preface this chapter by thanking you guys for your support on the first chapter! the number of kudos and comments blew me away. i really wasn't expecting much attention when i uploaded this fic, so thank you guys so much <3
> 
> enjoy!

“You look like shit,” says Sapnap. He reaches out a hand and sharply pokes George’s shoulder with his index finger.

George winces and rubs at his eyes, his sclera tinted pink and his eyelids a faint purple-brown. “I’m tired. And sore. So — stop poking me, Sapnap!” His voice raises to a slight shout, attracting the attention of other similarly exhausted, half-asleep students.

Sapnap draws his hand back from where he was repeatedly jabbing at George’s arm. “I was waking you up!”

It’s somewhat early in the morning — that time period that’s somewhere in between sunrise and the few hours before noon where skipping breakfast is socially acceptable. The sun’s a little over halfway up the sky, streaming the morning light into the large glass windows of the dining hall. Students are gradually filling up empty chairs and tables, slowly sipping at fragrant coffee and shoving breakfast into their mouths in apathy.

George dangles his fork over his plate, pushing his breakfast sausage around. They’re mediocre — charred and somehow oily yet dry at the same time. “If I could, I’d never take another morning class again.”

Sapnap takes a long sip of orange juice with one hand and scrolls on his laptop’s trackpad with the other. “Why didn’t you then?”

George thinks back to last night. “I need time to practice in the evenings. It’s either wake up _insanely_ early to practice before class or practice at night. And if I show up to practice as tired as I am right now I’d probably fail all my jumps, so…” He trails off and rubs at his knee, a messy patchwork of purple and blue bruises hidden under the fabric of his jeans.

“Speaking of practice,” Sapnap cracks his knuckles. “I have a meeting with my professor at lunch and hockey practice tonight, so you’re gonna have to find a new buddy or something.”

George shrugs. “That’s fine. I was probably just going to finish my homework and rest or something. My first day of official practice is tomorrow.” He sweeps the remainders of his breakfast into his mouth and follows it with a sip of apple juice.

“What do you even _do_ at figure skating practice?” Sapnap asks.

Huffing, George retorts, “What do you even do at _hockey_ practice? Push shit around with a stick?” 

“Yeah, yeah.”

* * *

At exactly twelve forty-five in the afternoon, Clay is browsing the shelves at Willis Library, swiping his fingers over the spines of book after book. Occasionally, one catches his eye and he’ll pull it off the shelf, give it a once-over, then slide it back into its original position with care.

Willis Library is a grand old thing — multiple stories with towering mahogany bookshelves filled with everything from practically ancient tomes to novels hot off the press by young new authors. On the third story, Clay can look down over the balcony and see row after row of wooden study desks in the heart of the library. When he looks up, ornate white columns hold up the ceiling, high and arching and free.

Clay’s searching for a new novel to pick up, one with fantasy and mystery, one that picks him up and swirls him into a blizzard of emotion and inspiration. That is, until he turns a corner and sees George, one hand stressfully grasping his cropped brown hair, brows visibly furrowed in confusion.

Clay steps up next to him cautiously. “Hi,” he says, eyes trained at the same spot George is looking. They’re in front of a selection of non-fiction books — biographies, to be exact.

George turns his head and when their eyes meet, a flash of recognition crosses his face. “Oh,” he says, then smiles. “Hello. Nice to see you again.”

Alarms sound in Clay’s head. Does George know? Clay takes a moment to assess. George’s body language is slightly harder to read now that he’s aware of Clay’s presence — too expressionless in the hands, too impassive in the eyes, too deadpan in the delivery of his greeting.

Clay clears his suddenly very dry throat.

“What are you looking at biographies for?”

George sighs. “I just finished a three hour long Literary Nonfiction lecture, and now they want me to pick a biography and analyze the components of it.”

This elicits a raise in eyebrows from Clay. “You’re taking Literary Nonfiction?”

George turns his entire body to face Clay’s. “Yeah,” says George, “what’s wrong with that?”

Although Clay isn’t quite sure what response he expected from George, he certainly wasn’t expecting _that._ “No, nothing,” he splutters. “I was just surprised, since you’re a computer science major and stuff.”

The wooden floor creaks lowly as George turns back towards the shelf. “It wasn’t exactly my first choice for an elective. I got last pick for course selection and they pretty much stuck me with this.”

Clay makes a noise of understanding. George steps towards the bookshelf and skims his fingers over the thick, colourful spines until he rests on one — it’s white with a simple black serif font running down the sides — and pulls it out.

“ _Gwyneth Paltrow and Goop_ ,” Clay reads from the cover, amused. “Written by Gwyneth Paltrow herself. Are you picking randomly? Or are you just picking terrible biographies just to spite me?”

George scowls at Gwyneth Paltrow’s blinding white veneers and returns the book to the shelf. “You’re an English major, aren’t you?” he asks. “Have you taken Literary Nonfiction?”

“I have,” says Clay, slow and deliberate. “I took it as an elective last year.”

“What biography did you pick, then?” 

“ _The Sand Castle_ by Julianne Cook. It’s incredible — it’s about Julianne and how she grew up from her childhood of bullying. And it’s written so perfectly and magically — it kinda reads like a fairy tale, you know? And once I started reading, I couldn’t put it down.”

To that, George scrunches up his nose and says, “Sounds boring.”

Clay opens his mouth to scoff loudly. “Oh come on now. You haven’t even read it — or even looked at the cover or read any summaries or —”

“It’s not my fault you’re terrible at pitching books to me.”

“Look,” says Clay, and he grabs George’s arm lightly to get his attention. “I’ll help you with your biography analysis _if_ ,” he pauses, “you read _The Sand Castle_ for fun.”

“What.”

“Read it for fun, then when you’re done get back to me whenever — no, get back to me in a week or two — and tell me what you thought. Think of it as _extra reading_.”

George looks something between disgusted and perplexed. “Who are you, my teacher?”

“I’m helping you with your assignment, aren’t I? I might as well be.” Clay crosses his arms and cocks his head to the side like the bastard that he is.

George rolls his eyes — subtly, but Clay catches it — and looks off to the side. “Fine. Help me pick out a biography to do my assignment on, then.”

Clay grins.

* * *

An hour later, George and Clay step out of Willis Library into the bright afternoon sun. George is in possession of three new things: a worn copy of _The Sand Castle_ , a biography detailing the life of some famous figure skater (Clay had widened his eyes a bit at that one), and three pages of hastily written notes on Clay’s tips and tricks on writing his analysis.

“Thank you for the help,” says George earnestly. He stops on the stone steps leading up to the library; Clay is just a few steps lower and pivots to face George.

“No problem,” Clay replies. And then, before he thinks too hard about it, he goes, “You can pay me back later. With the book, I mean.”

George smiles. “I will fulfill my end of the bargain, as promised.” There’s the hint of a laugh hidden beneath his words, but it goes unspoken.

“When are you going to finish the book?”

“I’ll let you know when.” George fishes his phone out of his back pocket and holds it out to Clay expectantly. “Here.”

Clay cranes his neck forward. “What?”

“Your number,” explains George patiently. “So I can let you know when I’m done with your dumbass biography. And so I can text you if I need help with my dumbass analysis.”

“ _When_ you need help,” Clay corrects, “not if.” 

* * *

George eats dinner — lasagna with a side of steamed broccoli, courtesy of the dining hall — at his desk, sitting cross-legged in his chair. He’s been poring over the pages of the figure skater biography Clay had helped him pick out for the past hour now, but he’s only about thirty pages in. 

Every word he reads makes sense, logically, in his brain — but George finds himself having to go back and reread the simplest of sentences at least twice before he absorbs any valuable information. And even then, the information glimmers in his head like a dying lightbulb, fading and flickering into nonexistence. He feels like he’s merely _looking_ at the words rather than truly _reading_.

He sighs and stretches out his back. His body still feels a bit sore from last night at the rink — the muscles in his back ache, a constant reminder of the masked hockey player that had caused him to fall over. 

What was his name again? Dream? He’d seemed nice enough; although he was inadvertently the reason for George’s injuries (ouch), he’d complimented George on his skating and seemed perfectly happy to share the ice rink. 

George yawns. Looks at the biography on his desk, looks away. Slumps his head onto his hands, cupping his face.

And just as George is about to hop out of his chair and into bed, call it a night, and put off the reading for later date — he gets the inkling of an idea.

* * *

Years of studying before and after skating practice, curled up somewhere in the stands or in the locker room, have conditioned George to unknowingly consider the _ice rink_ as his ideal study spot. 

He’s used to reviewing year ten chemistry terms and definitions over the booming sounds of speakers playing the same song on loop. He’s used to bringing his shitty little laptop and finishing his computer programming assignment while listening to the silver blades of figure skates scrape and slide across the ice. Hell, he’s even used to silently stressing about his upcoming exam _while on the ice._

What he’s _not_ used to is twenty raucous hockey players whooping and hollering at each other during a night of hockey practice. 

And George definitely did _not_ forget that Sapnap had told him about hockey practice tonight, thank you very much (he totally did).

The commotion is apparent to George even before he opens the door leading to the rink, though it’s muffled by the heavy steel door. It’s the sound of hockey pucks shooting across the ice, skates barrelling forwards, and the inevitable cheering between the players as they complete each drill.

Should he turn back? Cut his losses, head back to the dorm and fall straight into bed like he wanted to earlier? George mulls over his options, but he’s walked too far in his desperate state to return so suddenly.

When George shoves the door open, it’s no surprise that none of the hockey players notice him over all the ruckus. So he ducks his head, pulls his hood up over tufts of dark brown hair, and slouches into one of the front row seats. 

On the ice, the players take turns passing pucks to each other and sharply turning around bright pylons placed on the floor. They’re shouting words of encouragement at each other, but the words carry and echo through the stadium to the point where it’s difficult for George to understand. The hockey coach is standing off to the side, nodding and clapping along with praise.

George retrieves the biography from his bag and flips to the page he left off on. It takes a few minutes for him to get settled — get comfortable in the hard plastic chair, drown out all outside noise — until he’s finally _reading_. Brown eyes tear across page after page and, thanks to Clay’s tutorage, bright blue sticky notes are placed next to important passages and quotes. 

He’s just about halfway through the book when there’s a loud _bang._ George jerks his head up, startled, and there in front of him is Sapnap, helmet off and grinning toothily at George through the plexiglass surrounding the ice. Practice is over — the hockey players are slowly making their way towards the gate, and Sapnap follows.

“George!” exclaims Sapnap. He’s still in his skates and is wobbling slightly with each step. “Did you come to see me?”

“No,” George says, scoffing playfully. “I’m reading.”

“You don’t have to lie, y’know,” Sapnap counters. “Why are you reading _here_?”

“ _I’m not lying_ ,” insists George. “I just like it here. It keeps me focused.”

There’s someone else approaching from behind Sapnap — the last player to leave the rink. Clad in a jersey, white hockey pants, and black hockey skates, he’s walking stiffly, almost tense, with his hockey stick in hand.

“Hello,” Dream says. The smile in his voice is evident.

“Dream,” George replies, surprised. “Hello again.” Despite knowing of his place on the hockey team, it hadn’t clicked to George until now that Dream and Sapnap were on the same team.

Sapnap looks back and forth between them. “You two know each other?”

Dream’s quick to answer. “We met here yesterday.”

“So _that’s_ why you came home so late, George.” Sapnap turns back to George and rests his helmet on his hip, holding it in place with his arm.

“What?” George suppresses a laugh.

And then, unhelpfully, Dream adds: “No.”

Sapnap grins. “Are you coming with us to eat, Dream? We were thinking chicken wings.”

“Uh, no thanks,” says Dream, shifting his weight to the other foot. “I’ve got stuff to do.”

“Dude, you never go out with us,” Sapnap complains. “Aren’t you supposed to be like, the team captain and stuff? This is a great morale booster. Come boost our morale.”

Dream laughs, short and sweet. “I can boost morale another time.”

“Oh! Do you wanna come with us, George?” asks Sapnap, eyes bright.

George smiles. “No thanks, I already ate. And I’ve got this stupid book to finish,” he says, waving the biography around in the air for added emphasis.

Sighing, Sapnap runs his hands through his damp hair. “Whatever. I’m going to get changed,” he announces, and as he’s leaving, he calls out, “I’ll get you to come eat with us someday, Dream. You too, George.”

Dream merely shakes his head and waves once in the air. Turning back to George, he swallows. “So,” he starts, “you came back to see me?”

George rolls his eyes, smiling. “You and Sapnap are _exactly the same._ Working here is nice. It’s relaxing.”

Dream takes a seat next to George and sets his hockey stick to the side. The hockey team’s long gone — probably somewhere in the locker room bickering over which chicken place is better. “I get what you mean. I like it here too,” he says.

A beat of silence. George takes a sticky note and marks his place in the book before closing it shut. Dream shifts in the hard chair and sticks his legs out into the walkway.

“You didn’t tell me you were captain of the hockey team,” George points out.

Dream hums. “I didn’t think it was important,” he replies, then gestures towards the book in George’s lap. “You’re reading?”

“Yeah, I’ve got this one for one of my classes,” George says, and pulls out the other biography he’d borrowed from his bag. “And I’ve got this one for, uh, _extra reading_.”

“Oh,” says Dream, small and muffled under the helmet. “That’s cool.”

The second biography is returned to the bag. George frowns and tilts his head. “Aren’t you hot in that thing?” he asks, lightly tapping on the side of the white helmet.

“I’m hot _all the time_ , George.”

“He— well, I didn’t mean it like _that._ ”

Dream snickers again, this time louder, yet still suppressed by his headgear. His shoulders shake slightly from laughter.

“See, like that! I can’t hear you very well under the helmet. Why don’t you just take it off?” George asks in excitement.

“If I take off my helmet, George, I lose all of my mysterious hockey boy persona,” replies Dream. He’s staring at his feet outstretched in front of him, repeatedly moving them outwards in opposite directions and then back in to _thump_ his skates back together.

“Mysterious hockey boy persona?” echoes George in amusement.

Dream hops up, grabbing his stick from where it’s leaning against the wall. “Yes, George, that’s me.”

“Where are you going?”

“Just because practice is over for _them_ doesn’t mean it’s over for me,” answers Dream, and in a flash he’s already over at the gate, letting himself onto the ice.

George narrows his eyes, smiles slightly, shakes his head. And then he picks his book back up and continues to read, the sound of Dream’s skates ringing through the stadium.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> took me a while to grind out this chapter, sorry about that! i don't really know how often i can update since it depends on how much other work i have. 
> 
> please do leave a kudos or comment if you enjoyed, they make my day! n don’t forget to subscribe so u never miss an update :]


	3. shoot and score

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dream heads left, and the defense follows to try and intercept him. He jerks around and turns right, bringing the puck around. He’s tricked them; the goalie’s looking left, caught off guard, and there’s a golden opportunity here for Dream to take the shot — 
> 
> So he takes it.

Time passes by easily now that George is starting to get settled in at Northern University. His schedule’s pinned to the corkboard over his desk now rather than tucked into his backpack to refer to after every class. He spends time with Sapnap during meals and in the evenings whenever he can — he spends _more_ time completing his coursework at the ice rink or the comfort of his dorm room. Most importantly, George spends five days a week at figure skating practice. It goes smoothly; his teammates are nice enough and his coach has been nothing but welcoming.

Outside George and Sapnap’s window is a beautiful maple enveloped in a mess of orange-yellow leaves. In the mornings, it casts a faint shadow that falls on George’s sleeping form. During particularly heavy winds, spindly branches lightly tap against the window. Right now, however, the maple simply sways back and forth in the late afternoon breeze. Each gust of wind gently caresses the vibrant leaves — they’re due to start falling off soon, but for now, they hang on.

The two roommates are sitting comfortably on Sapnap’s bed. George sits cross-legged by the foot of the bed with his head propped up by his hands while Sapnap sits up by the head of the bed clutching his pillow. They’re having a movie night at Sapnap’s insistence — though George supposes that rewatching an episode of _The Office_ isn’t much of a movie.

 _“Sometimes I'll start a sentence, and I don't even know where it's going. I just hope I find it along the way.”_ Sapnap’s laptop speakers ring dialogue through the room, reverberating and bouncing off of unmade bed sheets and incomplete assignments. 

George ticks up his eyebrow, nods, and says: “True.”

“Shush,” hisses Sapnap. “I can’t hear anything over your big mouth.”

“I hardly even said anything,” protests George loudly. The corner of the laptop juts against his knee when he turns to face Sapnap in objection.

“Doesn’t matter,” retorts Sapnap. “Still annoying.”

“Why’re you so… mean?” 

“Shut up,” says Sapnap, and he whacks the pillow into George’s face. 

George moves to snatch the pillow from Sapnap in a feeble attempt to fight back, but he sees it coming and jerks it away. Faint particles of dust in the air whirl around with the harsh motion. George huffs and diverts his gaze away from Sapnap’s triumphant grin, back towards the show. 

“You’re coming to my game tomorrow, right?” Sapnap asks.

“What happened to shutting up?” quips George, and when Sapnap inevitably flips him off, he continues. “Game? Like a hockey game?”

“Obviously,” drawls Sapnap. “It’s just a friendly one against another university.”

“I don’t really know anything about hockey, though.”

“You don’t need to know anything,” says Sapnap, and he pouts. “Please George? Please? Come to my game so you can tell me that you’re proud of me?”

George grabs the pillow — Sapnap isn’t expecting it this time — and returns the favour, smacking Sapnap on the back of the head with it. “You’re like that kid whose dad didn’t come to any of their sports games or whatever,” George grumbles. “I don’t want to be your dad.”

“So you’ll come?” Sapnap’s eyes are wide and eager.

“What’s in it for me, exactly?” asks George, ever the bargainer.

“The satisfaction of supporting your best and only friend here.”

“You aren’t my _only_ friend,” says George pointedly, “and you definitely aren’t my _best_ friend.”

“I don’t know about that one, George,” says Sapnap, turning back towards the laptop. The characters of _The Office_ are currently struggling through a terrible, pathetic conversation filled with second-hand embarrassment. 

George, pitifully, looks towards the screen and feels like he’s going through the same thing. This is slightly (incredibly) humiliating.

He takes a deep breath. “I talk to other people here. My teammates at the figure skating club —”

“They don’t count —”

“— and Clay. And Dream,” George finishes.

“The only thing Clay does is _tutor_ you,” Sapnap points out unhelpfully, “and he eats lunch with us, like, once a week. But that doesn’t count either because I’m there.”

George rolls his eyes lightheartedly. “You’re really making me not want to come to your game anymore, you know.”

“Just come. Please? It’ll be fun,” insists Sapnap, and when George’s expression remains neutral and unchanging, he settles for: “I won’t make fun of you anymore. For at least a week, maybe.”

George considers this. Ideally, Sapnap would have said something along the lines of: “I won’t make fun of you anymore, ever, for the rest of my life,” or “You have so many friends that it’s practically unbelievable.” 

Sapnap and George have only known each other for the better of three weeks now, but the very thought of Sapnap saying something like that is unrealistic, and George knows it. So perhaps for now, he will forfeit from this argument, begrudgingly swallow his pride, and take what he can get.

George smiles. Tilts his chin up. Raises his eyebrows, and says, “Deal.”

* * *

“How’re you feeling?”

Dream looks up from his hands, tightly clasped together and fingernails chewed short. Sapnap is standing in front of him, helmet and protective gear already equipped. 

“I feel ready,” says Dream. “Confident.”

The locker room is, as always, loud and rowdy and smells like a combination of sweat and dirty ice. Through the tint of his helmet’s visor, Dream can see his teammates gearing up and chatting in preparation for the game. Bad and Ant are passionately bickering over some sort of video game while Callahan tightly secures his knee pads. In the commotion, “hype-up” music plays in the background at Punz’s insistence.

“First game of the year,” says Sapnap, lightly punching Dream in the arm. “You better be.”

“We’ve practiced a lot,” Dream replies. “I’ve seen what we can do as a team. We’re gonna crush those Warriors.”

Sapnap grins. “Hell yeah, dude. Are you gonna give one of your famous motivational speeches, or are we just going to have to live without one this time?”

Dream stands, his jersey and thick pants rustling together with the movement. Under his helmet, his gaze is determined, unfaltering, and steely. He slips on his gloves and grabs his hockey stick from next to his bag. His stick’s sturdy, yet lightweight and quick. Perfect for fast release on shots and flexible enough to withstand some wear and tear. 

Dream rests the blade on top of the floor and leans in on it slightly, like a cane, as he opens his mouth to speak. Arriving at the locker room early, gearing up, delivering a rallying speech to his cherished teammates — it’s second nature to Dream, at this point.

“Alright, everyone,” begins Dream, and the timbre of his voice is enough to make everyone quiet down and turn their heads. The heavy bass of the music fades away at the end of the song, as if it’s sentient and silencing itself like the hockey team, until the only sound left is the faint swish of fabric on fabric.“First game of the year — I hope everyone’s feeling good tonight.”

A few members of the team whoop and holler, applauding as to demonstrate their excitement. Their coach claps along and shoots a thumbs up across the room. Dream smiles and shakes his head.

“We’re going up against the _Langham Warriors_ tonight,” Dream announces. He stresses the opponent team’s name and spits it out like venom, all sour and pungent. “Those of you that’ve been playing with us for longer have seen firsthand how good they can be. So play fast, hard, gritty hockey. And don’t let your guard down — _never_ let your guard down.”

The team nods obediently and looks up at Dream with expecting eyes, waiting for him to give the last lines of his pep talk and send the room into a surge of booming roars.

In truth, the game is meant to be a friendly, civil one. One to kick off the season and give both the Northern Lions and Langham Warriors a chance to check up on each other’s skill and new team members. But it’s the _principle_ of the thing, and perhaps also a bit of Dream’s ego, that makes it so important that the Lions win this game. The two universities have been rivals for years now, since long before Dream even stepped foot onto campus, and it simply wouldn’t be right if the Lions didn’t put up their best fight for every game they play — friendly or not.

“This is _our_ game. We’re coming in prepared for this, and I’m confident. I have faith in all of us,” Dream pauses, pointing his hockey stick around the room, “that we’re going to _destroy_ those stupid Warriors. They’re not gonna know what hit them.”

The team delves into raucous cheers, hollering and stomping hockey sticks and heavy skates against the ground. The room’s buzzing and lively — electricity shoots through the air in currents, all wired up and twisty. When Dream inhales, it burns like sparks setting off inside his nostrils. Dream feels the energy all over, in his head, his veins, his heart, palpitating from adrenaline and excitement. 

Their coach nods at Dream in approval, and the team starts to file out of the locker room. They’re like soldiers heading off to war, all decked out in their uniforms of green jerseys and weaponry of hockey sticks. Following the orders of their commanding officer, nervous yet prepared for what’s to come.

The chill that settles around Dream’s body is apparent as soon as the doors to the rink swing open, filling his lungs with cool air with each breath. Upbeat pop reverberates throughout the stadium, making it feel nearly as electric as the locker room. No one is on the ice yet; the Lions are the home team, so they’re the ones getting on first. Unsurprisingly, the stands are only half filled — people want a chance to see the two rival teams in action, but this game isn’t quite important enough to constitute a larger crowd.

At the gate, Dream waits to the side and fist bumps each of his teammates before they skate onto the ice. It’s a small, comforting gesture that brings reassurance to each player, and another one of the Lions’ pre-game rituals. Dream takes care to not bump anyone too roughly; he knows that a slight injury or sore wrist could cost them the game.

Sam’s the last one in line and as soon as he gets on the ice, Dream steps up behind him to get through the gate himself. Stick in hand, Dream follows the team and does laps around the edge of the rink, warming up for the game. His legs move back and forth, left then right, and he can feel his legs warming up with more blood pumping through them.

Past the plexiglass is what must be at least several hundred students and parents, most dressed in light green or dark red to represent the team they’re cheering on. And then, _also_ past the plexiglass on the opposite side of the rink is the Langham Warriors, gliding onto the ice with ease. They do laps around the edge themselves, skating with belligerence in a display of dominance. If Dream didn’t know any better, he’d think that they were reckless. In reality, they’re anything but.

There are many of them, all dressed in the same deep red uniform. Dream skates up to one player in particular with a jersey that says _TECHNO_ on the back in bold letters. He’s standing by the gate on the other side of the rink.

Techno turns around. “Dream,” he says, voice deep and monotone.

“Techno,” Dream replies. “I see you’ve got some freshmen on the team.” Dream jerks his hockey stick back, pointing at two players clearly racing each other to complete the most laps. Their jerseys are bright and shiny and new.

“I do,” Techno grins, and he gestures his arm as if to say _come with me_ while he skates away, not wanting to disrupt the flow of traffic. Dream skates next to him and glides on one foot. “Tommy and Tubbo. They’re kind of a dynamic duo as left and right wing forwards. You’re not _ageist_ , are you? Are you hating on them just because they’re freshmen?”

“ _Ageist_?” a voice blurts out from behind. Dream pivots around to see a blond boy, helmet off, gaping incredulously at him.

Techno sighs. “Put your helmet on before the game starts, Tommy,” he scolds, and the younger boy immediately squeaks out a “sorry” before scrambling to put his helmet on. Tommy skates in front of the two team captains and then turns, skating backwards to get a good look at them.

“You’re Dream! D-Money. Big D,” says Tommy, fastening his helmet. Around them, other players are whizzing by and giving the group confused looks. 

Dream blinks and then winces in disgust. “Don’t call me that,” he says, and then: “You know me?”

Tommy scoffs. He slips his mouth guard off of his teeth, gnawing on it with an air of recklessness. “Of course I know you! You’re _Dream_. Everyone knows you. And you’ve quite literally got your name written all over yourself.” He gestures with his free hand to Dream’s jersey.

“ _Everyone_ knows me?” Dream gapes. The pop song in the background fills the gap in the conversation after his question, the singer’s pitch-perfect voice belting out lyrics passionately. There’s a twisted feeling in Dream’s chest, gnarled and suffocating.

“Oh, look at mister humble over here. Doesn’t want to admit that he’s about as famous as a university hockey team captain can be,” Techno teases, pumping his legs faster to keep up with Tommy’s brash movements. His skates hit against the ice with satisfying scrapes.

Tommy guffaws in response. “It’s fine,” he says, glancing behind him to check if he’s about to skate backwards into another player or, more embarrassingly, the wall. “After we absolutely _destroy_ you in this game, no one’ll know who you are anymore.”

“Not gonna happen,” replies Dream.

Tommy skates off to catch up with Tubbo, and Techno gives a sarcastic salute to Dream before moving on himself. Dream shakes his head, dispelling the heavy feeling in his chest. He focuses back on warming up his legs, moving them across the ice in a quick rhythm, and soon he can barely feel the nippy air hurtling past him as he skates around the rink’s edge with ferocity.

The referee blows his whistle, and Dream takes his place as centre forward in the middle of the centre circle. Gives a determined nod to Sapnap at his right and Punz on his left. Looks at Techno dead in the eyes and reaches out a gloved hand for a handshake, all good sportsmanship-like.

Techno shakes his hand, because of course he does. He’s too diplomatic not to, that cocky bastard. Dream thinks, _I hate that_ , but the truth is that he’d do the same thing in Techno’s position, so he hasn’t got much room to complain.

The stadium quiets as the referee holds the puck in between the two players, It’s haunting, filling everyone with anticipation. Dream furrows his eyebrows and stares down at the blade of his stick, positioned parallel to Techno’s.

The puck clatters to the ground with a _thunk_ , and in Dream’s eyes time slows as he swipes his stick left to catch it. But Techno’s a millisecond faster, a cheetah to Dream’s lion, managing to get to the puck first and sending it flying towards his right.

Tommy’s hockey stick is expecting the puck and stops it, hitting it with its blade. Instantly, he’s out of position and hurtling across the red middle line to the Lions’ goal. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Dream curses under his breath, racing to catch up to the puck. He wasn’t expecting to lose the face-off, but he knows that his team can steer the game back in their favour.

Ponk and Sam are on defense, and the pair rush towards Tommy to intercept the puck. Tommy shoots it towards Tubbo, who’s wide open on the left wing of the rink, but Sapnap’s quicker and catches the puck in between the two forwards and pivots with force, sending bits of ice flying across the rink. 

Sapnap drives the puck the opposite direction towards the opponent’s attack zone. Dream follows, right down the centre line, and watches as Sapnap gets surrounded by the other team’s defense and the puck gets stolen away.

The game goes lightning quick — skates on ice, hockey sticks clattering together, the puck whizzing and whirring every which way. The two teams are strong in defense: whenever the puck is getting too close to one team’s goal, it isn’t long before the defense is sending it towards a fellow teammate to steer away towards the opposite side of the rink. The puck’s in Tubbo’s possession, then Sam’s, and then Techno’s. Dream keeps up easily, pushing his legs across the ice and trying to stay open for a potential future pass. 

Techno barrels past Punz and Dream with the puck, heading straight towards the goal and dodging Ponk and Sam expertly. Dream charges towards him, knees belt and legs shoulder-width apart, but when he’s only a few meters away, Techno flicks his stick up from the right of the goal and launches the puck into a perfect parabola.

The puck rockets through the air, so fast that Dream can barely see it until it lands behind their goalie, Callahan, and into the net. Horns blare and the audience erupts into cheers. Tommy and Tubbo skate around Dream and yell something along the lines of “suck it, green boy”, raising their sticks in celebration.

Dream returns to his spot at the centre circle for the face-off and calms himself. _You’ve got this_ , he thinks to himself, breath heavy and hair sticky under his helmet. _This is your game. Bring it back._

This time, when the referee drops the puck again, Dream’s able to knock it backwards and into Ponk’s possession, who promptly skates up and passes it to Punz when Tubbo attempts to corner him. Punz skates across the ice, dodging a bodycheck from Tommy, and shoots the puck back diagonally. Dream catches the pass and skates to the side, circling behind the goal, ever so aware of Techno’s presence looming behind him like a shadow — and then Techno’s slamming into Dream, trying to get the puck off of him.

Techno’s got Dream trapped now, stuck between him and the plexiglass. Dream’s helmet is pressed up and knocking against the barrier as he shoves the puck between the wall and his skate, Dream’s hockey stick shoving Techno’s away. The two fight over the puck until Sapnap comes and knocks it out, steering the puck back in front of the net.

Sapnap’s all clear, no opponent player blocking his line of sight. He sees an opportunity here and takes it, shooting the puck into the goal. The goalie moves to block, but it proves useless — the puck ricochets off of the metal goal posts and lands far back towards the middle of the rink.

And then _fuck_ , because the buzzers are going off to signal that the twenty minutes of the first period of the game are over, gone in a flash. Techno, mockingly, gives another salute to Dream before skating off to reconvene with his team. Dream scowls and turns towards the gate.

On the sidelines, the team looks concerningly dejected. This isn’t a great start to the game, much less the year. Sam and a few others have got their helmets off, drying sweat off their foreheads, but Dream’s helmet stays on, trapping the heat inside. 

“Yikes,” voices Sapnap with a slight lisp, his mouthguard hanging between his teeth. The team doesn’t express it out loud, but Dream can tell that they’re all silently agreeing.

“Well don’t say _that_ ,” Dream says in disapproval. “We’ve come back from worse games from this. This is only period _one._ That was just our warm-up — we’ve still got two more periods to go. We’re bringing this back.”

Their coach claps Dream on the back and leans in to speak to the Lions in hushed tones, discussing new strategies and which players to cycle out. Sapnap and Punz are off for now, being replaced with Bad and Skeppy, while Ant takes Ponk’s place at defense. 

“Remember, don’t let your guard down around these guys. And don’t let their smack talk get to you,” Dream advises as intermission ends. He’ll be caught dead before he lets one of Tommy’s stupid chants or Techno’s sardonic salutes get into his head and affect his performance.

In the second period, Dream and Techno fumble over the puck, sticks hitting each other with force, before Dream steals it away and sweeps it behind him. Bad catches the pass and flies across the ice until he’s blocked by Wilbur, one of the Warrior’s defense players, and loses the puck as Wilbur swipes it right off of Bad’s stick.

Wilbur passes to Tubbo, who scrambles across the ice to send it towards the Lions’ goal. There’s a scuffle, a bit of time where the puck flies back and forth through passes after passes and intercepts after intercepts, until Skeppy gets hold of it and passes it to Dream. 

Now, Dream’s in possession of the puck, and this time he’s prepared to take a shot.

He speeds across the ice, skates hitting the ground with a fighting spirit. Dream knows that it’ll be difficult to score this goal using pure technical skill alone — hell, Techno’s skill is practically the same level as Dream’s, if not slightly better — so he’ll have to rely on his wits for this one. 

Down the centre line he goes. The goalie braces in anticipation for Dream to take a shot, but the Warrior’s defense is following Dream too closely for him to get an opportunity in. Instead, he skates behind the goal. Everyone else is on the other side, waiting for Dream to skate back around.

Dream heads left, and the defense follows to try and intercept him. He jerks around and turns right, bringing the puck around. He’s tricked them; the goalie’s looking left, caught off guard, and there’s a golden opportunity here for Dream to take the shot — 

So he takes it.

The puck is shot up and forward. It darts through the air like a bullet awaiting its target. Dream waits with bated breath and watches as it narrowly passes between the knee pads of the goalie. 

The puck hits the back of the net, and the stadium bursts into applause. Dream beams under his helmet and sticks up both his arms to cheer, his teammates clapping him on the back. 

The rest of the second period is mainly uneventful — the puck does it again, sliding back and forth from one side of the arena to the other, but never actually crossing the goal line.

“This is good,” announces Dream during intermission, panting and thirsty. “This is momentum. We need to keep this up.”

The third period begins with Tommy and Tubbo passing between each other, back and forth in an almost synchronized dance. _Techno was right_ , Dream thinks, _when he said they were a dynamic duo._ Sapnap and Punz are back in this time, following the two players closely.

What’s notable about the last portion of the game is this: Dream’s in possession of the puck after Sapnap steals it from Tubbo and passes it over, and Dream can hear Tommy’s exclamations of “what the absolute _fuck_ ,” across the rink as Dream hurtles across the ice and into the opposing team’s side of the arena. There’s a loud skating noise nearby and suddenly Tommy is _right next to him_ , trying to steal the puck. Tommy shoves his stick directly in Dream’s path, and then Dream’s falling to the ground onto the slippery, frigid ice.

The referee blows his whistle — it’s a minor penalty for tripping a player with a stick — and Tommy’s forced off the ice for _two whole minutes._ “It was an accident,” Tommy moans, but the referee doesn’t seem to care. Techno brings his hands to his face in annoyance, Tubbo cries out in worry. 

The notion of the Warriors losing a player makes Dream giddy. Now, the Lions are on a power play; they’ve got the upper hand with one extra player.

Play resumes with another faceoff right where the game paused. The Warriors win it this time and quickly send the puck across the ice. The game’s not looking amazing — they’re 1-1, and Dream isn’t sure how much time’s left in the game, but he knows there’s not much left. Going into overtime is a very real possibility here.

Dream follows the puck, waiting for a chance to intercept or to catch a pass. Tubbo’s got the puck, and he’s looking for someone to pass to, but without Tommy there it makes things slightly more difficult. Sam wrestles the puck out of his possession and makes an attempt to pass it to Punz, but Techno glides right in between and snatches it.

Techno drives the puck towards the goal, and Callahan shifts, bracing for the puck to come flying towards him. It hits against his right glove and the puck goes right back into play. Techno missed, and he’s not looking too happy about it; his gloved hands are curled around his hockey stick, looking strong enough to snap the stick in two.

 _Momentum_ , Dream thinks as he gains control of the puck, circling it with his stick. _Keep this up_ , he tells himself as he passes the puck to Sapnap, wide open and ready for the catch.

Sapnap’s flying across the ice, far ahead from everyone else. The Warriors surround him again, making an effort to steal the puck away, but Sapnap’s too quick, too strong, too _good_ this time around and manages to keep the puck on him. He skates right up next to the goal, the opponent team right on his tail.

He launches the puck up into the air and _bats it into the goal_ with the blade of his hockey stick like a baseball, and it somehow _works._ The puck whizzes past the goalie’s helmet and into the net. Sapnap’s absolutely glowing when the horns sound yet again to signal the goal, hugging his nearest teammates in victory.

Tommy’s two minutes of penalty are unfortunately over, and he makes his way back onto the ice a few seconds after the faceoff. Techno immediately passes to him, and he’s already got his head in the game; he’s skating energetically and never loses control of the puck.

There’s less than a minute left now — if the Lions can keep the puck out of the goal, they’ve already secured the victory. The Warriors are getting worried now, frantic and daring with their movements. Tommy races to the goal and desperately looks for an opening, a chance to tie the score and send the game into overtime, but the Lions don't let him. Defense guards Tommy closely, blocking his line of sight.

And then Tommy’s somehow shooting between his legs, the puck sliding across the ice in a line that’s bound to send the game into overtime — but before the puck crosses the goal line, the buzzers resound through the stadium, deafening and booming. 

The game’s over — the Lions have won. They’ve won, they’ve won, they’ve _won._ Against the _Langham Warriors_. 2-1.

The audience rises to their feet in glee and cheers. Dream turns to Techno, who’s looking slightly crestfallen, and raises his hand to his head. 

He puts two fingers up. Rests them against his forehead. And, cheekily, salutes him.

* * *

“Sap _nap_ ,” says George, stressing the last syllable.

“George!” exclaims Sapnap. They’re in the hallway outside of the locker room; Sapnap’s just come out, all changed and ready to head home. “Did you see my goal?”

“I did, actually. Good job, Sapnap,” George replies. His tone’s sarcastic, but the words are genuine. Sapnap picks up on the truthfulness behind his voice.

“Are you proud of me now?” Sapnap slings an arm around George’s shoulder and grips the strap of his hockey bag with the other.

“Get off of me,” complains George, ducking under his arm. “But you know what?” 

“What?”

“Maybe… I am a little proud of you,” George admits, shrugging.

“Yeah,” says Sapnap, smiling and dragging out the word. “I knew you would be. That’s why I asked you to come.”

The two roommates walk down the hallway, passing white painted brick and various cork boards detailing information about the hockey team. Dark grey rubber flooring hits their feet, soft enough to avoid damage from skates yet firm enough to provide support. 

George nods. “I actually liked it more than I expected,” he confesses. “It was harder to follow at first, but I think I understand now.” 

Sapnap doesn’t miss an opportunity to gloat, still riding high off of his victory. “Well, I’m just glad that we fucking _won_ . We shit on those guys. My shot literally _changed the game_.”

George smiles, amused by Sapnap’s confidence. “It did,” he agrees.

They reach the end of the hallway where there’s a heavy double door leading to the lobby of the building. The walls near the door are painted green with a roaring lion promoting Northern University’s beloved mascot.

Sapnap’s already pushing one of the doors open, leaning on it with his side. “Let’s go home.”

George shakes his head. “You go without me. I kind of want to practice.” He pats the duffle bag he’s got slung across his shoulder twice, feeling the stiff material under his fingertips. 

“Again?” groans Sapnap, despairingly. “What the hell, dude? Why’d you even bring your skates?”

George frowns. “I brought them _just in case_ ,” he replies, “and this is just in case. I need more practice outside of the club.”

“Whatever,” says Sapnap with a sigh. “I’m going home and going to _bed_. G’night, George.” Sapnap waves goodbye and pushes through the door. It slams shut in George’s face, delivering a cold gust of air.

George turns. Down the hallway and to the right is the door to the ice rink, imposing and painted a pretty shade of green. He walks down the hallway, bag bouncing against his left hip, and goes inside.

What he expected to see was this: bright white lights beaming down on him, deserted stands, and the ice of the rink all smoothed out and shiny from the work of the ice resurfacer. Maybe there’s a single custodian there or something, cleaning up the audience’s trash — George doesn’t know. He didn’t really think too hard about what would be behind that door when he opened it, because why would he?

Instead, he sees some jersey-wearing, hockey-stick-holding _bastard_ tearing up the ice for the second time tonight.

The heavy door slams shut behind George with a _thump_ and then a _click._

Dream skates over, gliding on one foot. “George!”

“Dream,” says George, walking up to the barrier between them. His voice is loud, but not quite a yell, so that Dream can hear him through the plexiglass. “What’re you doing here?”

“I don’t know,” Dream admits. He adjusts his feet and twists his torso so he’s rotating on the spot. “What’re you doing here?”

George holds up his bag. It’s heavy, and his arms struggle a bit to keep steady. “I was going to practice. I didn’t know you’d be here,” he says, surprised.

“Lace up your skates,” says Dream. George walks towards the seats to set his bag down; on the other side of the barrier, Dream follows. “We can share again, just like last time.”

“Aren’t you tired?” asks George, unzipping the bag and taking out his skates. They’re spotless and the blades are freshly sharpened. 

“A little bit. I took a break after the game, though.”

George pulls down the sleeves of his sweater, the dark blue knit covering his pale forearms. “I did watch the game,” he says, smiling. “Congratulations on securing the win.”

Dream bows down, one hand over his abdomen. “Thank you, George,” he teases. It’s evident in his voice that he’s barely containing his laughter. “I am pretty talented, if I say so myself.”

“Mm…” George hums. His eyebrows are twisted up in mock confusion, his lips pursed and screwed up in thought. “I don’t know about that one.” George unlocks the gate and steps into the rink. The air around him is cold and clear and fresh. The ice is glossy and near frictionless, save for the scratches caused by Dream.

Dream makes egg-shaped markings on the ice, skating forwards while moving his feet in and out, in and out from each other. George vaguely remembers doing the same in his childhood skating classes. “You can admit it, George. Just say I’m talented,” says Dream.

“I’m sorry, Dream,” George replies, not sounding very sorry at all. “I don’t think I can do that.”

“What?” Dream asks incredulously. He points down with his stick to the puck at his feet. “Okay, but this is a lot, _lot_ harder than it looks. You think you can score the same goal that I did?”

“Maybe,” George replies. He’s all bark and no bite. “Too bad the hockey nets aren’t here. Otherwise I’d show you.”

“Oh I’m _sure_ ,” counters Dream, sarcastic. “Next time then. We’ll see if you can do it.”

George narrows his eyes and skates in large looping circles, warming up his legs. “And you think you can land any of my figure skating jumps?”

“Well, I didn’t say _that_ —”

“It’s okay, Dream,” says George as he comes to a halting stop in front of the hockey player. He widens his eyes and turns up the corners of his lips, all bright and innocent-like. “You can just admit that I’m a better skater than you.”

Dream shakes his head, and his helmet swishes against the cotton of his jersey. “Don’t you have some more jumps to practice?” he asks.

“I do, actually,” answers George, looking over his shoulder at the other side of the rink. It’s empty and polished smooth. The two halves are divided by the centre line, thick and brilliant red. “I guess we’re sharing again.”

Dream twirls his hockey stick around in his hand. “I guess we are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> long rant alert!! please read, there's some important info + sappy stuff !!
> 
> oh my god do any other authors struggle to go back and reread their writing because i tried reading the last two chapters i wrote and all i could think was “this is very embarrassing and not my best work” but maybe that's just me being too harsh on myself as an author
> 
> "Sometimes I'll start a sentence, and I don't even know where it's going. I just hope I find it along the way." me writing this entire fic. this shit is capital D Difficult
> 
> funny story: while i was writing this chapter i noticed a spike in hits, comments, and kudos, so i was a little confused. i went to twitter (as you do whenever something mildly interesting happens) and saw that hockey dream figure skater george BLEW UP bc of some fanart (linked [here by codiichronicles](https://twitter.com/CodiiChronicles/status/1351696939788603392?s=20)) n i was like woahhh. that is very cool.
> 
> to those of you who recommended my fic on twitter: I SEE YOU!!!! THANK YOU!!! i appreciate you more than you know (yes i'm self-obsessed and looked up the name and link of my own fic on twitter)
> 
> and hello to all my new readers hope u enjoy! i appreciate you so much thank u for all the support. there are 102 comments, 408 kudos, 121 bookmarks, and 2980 hits as i'm writing this. that's fucking insane!! thank you so much!
> 
> longer chapter for today to make up for the late update!! this chapter is a little bit slower in dream & george's relationship progression than the previous chapters and is really dream-centric. but the two sharing the rink here and bantering is all part of my master plan hehe
> 
> originally, clay was going to show up at the end of this chapter and some relationship progression between clay & george was gonna happen but i decided to move that to the next one bc it just didn't fit and was a bad place to end. 
> 
> hopefully u guys enjoyed reading the game! i had to watch a few hours of hockey and research a bit to get a feel for the game. i thought the game might get a little boring to read at times so i tried putting some dialogue and funny bits in, like the stuff dream says between periods and when tommy got penalized. and the techno/dream dynamic was so so fun to write!
> 
> oh and by the way i'll say it here: i've only read two short chapters of one other dnf figure skater/hockey player fic so any similarities between mine and someone else's are just coincidences!! i know there are fics with this same au idea (some older than mine) but before publishing this fic and looking through the tags i didn't even know they existed. just clearing things up bc i don't want any issues!!
> 
> i think that's all. thank you so much for reading! please leave a comment + kudos if you enjoyed or have any questions, they make my day and i love responding to them!


	4. coffee and assignments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George gives a little smile. “Thanks,” he says, quietly.
> 
> Dream frowns. “Is there something wrong?”
> 
> “No,” says George, lying through his teeth. And then, even more unconvincingly: “Everything is good. I’m good.” He flexes his gloved hands, clenching and unclenching them.
> 
> Dream stares at him through his visor. “Okay,” he goes, all slow and doubtful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for 5000 hits and 600 kudos :]
> 
> everyone go check out [this fanart](https://westywallowing-archive.tumblr.com/post/641977758042537984/figure-skater-george-doodles-from-figure-skates) about this fic by [westywallowing on tumblr](https://westywallowing.tumblr.com) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/westywallowing/status/1356469642273898496?s=20)!! thank you so much for taking your time to do this, i appreciate it so much <3

As expected, George is exhausted the next day, muscles sore and covered in bruises from last night’s skating session. Outside, it’s dark and dreary. Rain splatters onto the floor in tiny explosions and hits the window with tiny pitter patters. Water droplets slide down the length of the glass, dispersing when they hit the bottom edge. 

George has never liked the rain much. It’s okay, he supposes — at the very most it’s an excuse to curl up in bed by his laptop or stay a tiny bit longer at the ice rink waiting for the weather to calm down. 

But when he’s up at seven in the morning forcing himself to complete his biography analysis hours before it’s due, the dark and dreary weather _really_ doesn’t help at all in waking him up.

George is at a coffee shop — he doesn’t even like coffee that much, to be honest — soaking wet from rain despite the little blue umbrella he left in the stand by the door. He feels drowsy while standing in line, blinking away the urge to sleep and running his hands through his hair.

He steps up to the cash register. Squints at the menu perched above the loudly whirring coffee bean grinder. Orders some whatever flavoured iced coffee with a blueberry-something muffin for breakfast. Pays with a fifty dollar bill — he’s still trying to break some of the bills he got from the currency exchange stand at the airport — and plops down in an armchair when he receives his order.

He sips at his straw with one hand while precariously balancing his laptop on his lap with the other. Quickly navigating through his various files, George opens his unfinished Microsoft Word document _._ The corner of his screen, mockingly, reads _7:36_ _AM_ — only about three hours left until he’s got his first class of the day and won’t be able to work on the analysis anymore.

George shifts in his seat and stifles a yawn. He sets his coffee down, the condensation from the cup still wet on his fingertips, and starts typing. The soft leather of the armchair is comforting enough to make him want to tuck his legs in and curl up into the chair.

He shakes away the urge and focuses back on the brightly lit screen. His head’s swimming with exhaustion, but any second now the coffee will kick in and jolt him awake.

The sound of his keyboard clacking quickly fades into the hum and buzz of the coffee shop. The cash register dings, students chatter aimlessly, and the bell above the entrance chimes occasionally.

George doesn’t look up from his computer until the bell rings again, tinkling and soft, and then there’s a tall, dark shadow casting over George’s face.

Clay clears his throat and says, “Hello.” All polite and cordial with a pleasant smile on his face.

George rubs his eyes to clear the foggy haze he’s seeing through. There’s a halo of light surrounding Clay’s form, backlit by the yellow-tinted lamp behind him. “Good morning,” George manages to say. His voice is still croaky from sleep.

“You’re here early,” Clay points out. He takes a seat across from George and clasps his hands together over his knees.

“I’m trying to —” George starts, then sighs heavily. “You’re going to be mad at me for this one.”

Clay’s face contorts from one of gentle smiles to one of concern and confusion. “For what?”

“I left my biography analysis until the last minute, and now it’s due today and it’s _still_ not done,” George says, all in one breath.

“The one I helped you with?”

George nods dumbly. Clay runs a hand through his sandy blond hair.

“Pass it here,” says Clay, and he reaches over the coffee table for the laptop balanced atop George’s lap. 

George does indeed pass it over and takes a long, forceful sip from his coffee cup. It tastes bitter yet with hints of vanilla bean. 

Skimming the document, Clay’s fingers fly across the trackpad with grace. “Why did you wait until the last minute?”

“I don’t know,” whines George between swallows of coffee. “I just didn’t wanna work on it.”

“So you went to the hockey game last night instead?”

George raises an eyebrow. The only person that he spoke to about going to the game beforehand was Sapnap. Was it that obvious? That he’d prioritized fun over schoolwork? 

He brings his cup down from his mouth. “What? How’d you know?”

Clay’s eyes stop sweeping across the document and freeze in place. “I guessed,” he answers, much too quickly before resuming his proofreading. “Sapnap being your roommate and all that.”

George opts to take a bite of his muffin. “Did you go?”

“No,” says Clay, clipped and curt. And then, in a kinder tone: “I was working on a writing assignment.”

The muffin’s long gone after a few minutes of silence, and all that’s left is its wrapper. George gets up to throw it away. When he returns, Clay’s tilting the laptop towards him and pointing at the screen.

“It’s good,” he says earnestly, “but I made some edits in the third and fourth paragraphs to help with word choice and sentence flow. And I know you aren’t done with the conclusion yet, but make sure that you’re really finding that last sentence that wraps everything up, y’know? Like the ribbon on top of the present.”

It’s good advice. Clay knows that George isn’t the best writer, but he’s being patient and supportive nonetheless. George takes the laptop and skims through the document. It’s true — the words do flow better now, like a gentle stream of water.

George focuses hard on the screen. “Huh. You’re right.”

“Yeah? All the edits are okay?” asks Clay. He scratches the back of his neck.

“It’s weird,” says George with confusion. “Before the edits, I never would’ve thought to make any changes. But, like, after — it’s so obviously _better_. I don’t know why I didn’t think about it earlier.”

Clay clears his throat. “Yeah, well, English is hard, so…”

“It is,” George agrees easily, looking up from his laptop.

“My class doesn’t start for another few hours,” announces Clay. He shifts in his seat, jeans squeaking softly against worn leather. “So if you need any more help…”

“Mine neither.”

* * *

An hour and a whole coffee later, George steps out of the coffee shop and holds out a hand to check for rain. It’s calmed down now, but the air is still warm and heavy from moisture. Above, the sun peeks through thick clouds of white and grey.

“Thank you again,” he says when his sneakers hit the sidewalk.

“It’s really no problem,” insists Clay. “I like editing people’s work. It’s fun.”

The biography analysis is done and saved to George’s laptop, fittingly titled _Biography Analysis Final Final2 FINAL_. It’s all ready to print and submit to the Literary Nonfiction professor.

The pair walk down the street towards the heart of campus — George is going to the library to print and staple his assignment, and Clay is heading straight to class. 

Clay points at George’s backpack. “Have you finished that book I recommended?”

George grimaces and shakes his head. “I haven’t, actually,” he confesses.

“Oh.” Clay picks at the hem of his jacket — it’s a lightweight aviator jacket lined with faux fur.

“I mean,” George adds quickly, “I _want_ to. I’ve just been really busy with skating practice and assignments. You saw how I had to rush my work just now, right?”

“No, I get it,” says Clay. He faces George with a kindhearted smile. “Take your time. And don’t procrastinate your English assignments to the last second next time, yeah?”

George laughs. “No promises.”

* * *

After algebra, lunch with Sapnap, and a flurry of other classes, George is sitting in class alone and _bored out of his mind_. His computer programming professor’s droning on and on about the next unit in the class, using a metre stick to point at the projection of his computer screen.

And sure. As much as George likes computer programming — he loves it, really — he just can’t bring himself to pay attention. Maybe it’s his professor's painfully monotone voice, or maybe it’s the distracting shuffle of his classmates’ notes. Whatever it is, his mind always manages to wander elsewhere.

Somehow, using the laptop he’s supposed to be taking notes with, he finds himself on the Northern University Lions’ webpage. 

George clicks his way to the figure skating page. It’s mostly empty — it’s only the start of the school year, after all, and all the articles are about last year’s events. At the top of the page, he clicks _Roster._ Scrolls down, down, down, past his teammates’ beaming faces, until he reaches his own profile.

He’s smiling brightly at the camera wearing a sleek, green quarter zip sweater. The university lion mascot rests proudly atop his heart, a reminder of his dedication to his sport. A quick glance of George’s profile shows his full name, height, hometown, and even a short personal description. All this information about him is just _out there_ on the internet, ready for anyone to read.

The students around him chuckle at a joke the professor makes, pulling George’s attention back towards the front of the class. He straightens his back and does his best to look like a good student while continuing his mindless internet browsing.

And then, out of sheer boredom (and perhaps a bit of curiosity), he’s on the ice hockey page and clicking on the team roster. He browses through names he vaguely remembers seeing on the backs of green jerseys during last night’s game.

Here’s the funny thing: right below Sapnap’s profile is Dream’s profile, all neat and organized with his player information. What differentiates the two, however, is that Dream’s profile doesn’t have a picture to go with it. Where there would be a photo of him is just a placeholder image of the Lions’ logo.

George clicks on Dream’s page and opens Sapnap’s in another tab. Sapnap’s page has all sorts of information — full name (Sapnap had graciously explained to George that Sapnap was a nickname after being called _Nicholas_ by their algebra professor), hometown, major, participation in last year’s hockey games, and even his _favourite movie_. In his picture, he’s got his lips quirked up in a slight smirk and has the same quarter zip as George on. There’s even a banner on his page depicting Sapnap in the middle of a game, clad in his jersey and helmet.

George switches back to Dream’s tab. Compared to Sapnap’s, it’s practically empty. Eyes flitting across the screen, George skims over his profile.

_Dream | 6’3” | 195 LBS._

_2020-2021: Appointed team captain by coach and popular vote._

_2019-2020: Dressed for all regular season and playoff games. Achieved 17 assists and 28 points in the regular season. Ranked first on the team in goals and points. Helped Northern University to second-place finish at Queen’s Cup Final._

George squints. _Is that it?_ he thinks. He looks the page over to make sure there isn’t some hidden page he’s missed. Clicks around aimlessly for good measure. 

No pictures, no major, no personal information whatsoever. Not even a _name._ All there is to Dream’s profile is _hockey._

In the browser search bar, George types _Dream hockey Northern University_ and scrutinizes the results only to come up empty. There’s nothing more than a few articles on the school website detailing last year’s games, all of which only have pictures of Dream on the ice with his helmet on.

“Huh,” sounds George, tilting his head.

And perhaps he’s a _bit_ too loud, because the professor goes quiet and makes eye contact with him.

“Something you wanted to add?” the professor asks. His arm is frozen in place, pointing at lines of code projected onto the board.

George opens and closes his mouth like a fish. “Uh,” he stammers, “no. I apologise.”

“Great,” says the professor, switching the projector off with a loud _click._ “Now, as I’m sure you already know, in four weeks time I expect all of you to hand in the unit assignment on the syllabus.”

George hides his head in his arms and tries to muffle his groan.

* * *

In the evening, George sits cross-legged in his desk chair and looks down at his empty mug.

“Do I do it, Sapnap?”

Sapnap swallows a bite of his second meatball sandwich of the night; George has learnt over the past few weeks that hockey players need much more sustenance than expected to keep up with their active lifestyle. “Do what?”

“Get another coffee,” says George, hesitant.

“Hell no. You’ll be awake all night,” Sapnap answers, waving his sandwich in the air for added emphasis.

George swings his legs down to hit the carpeted floor. “That’s kind of the point.”

“You’re fucking ridiculous.”

As Sapnap eats with one hand and scribbles equations into his notebook with the other, George sets down his mug with a sigh and stares at his calendar with frustration. His schedule’s jam packed with classes and practice — he’s barely got any time to himself this month.

“How about an energy drink? Those could work,” George suggests desperately.

“You are _dehydrated_ ,” says Sapnap, and he reaches under his desk. “Catch.” He throws a bottle of water that goes soaring through the air.

George catches it, barely, and gladly unscrews the cap. “Thanks.”

Sapnap mumbles back a “you’re welcome” and flips through his notes. 

“Movie night?” asks George, sounding hopeful. “Next time we’re both free, I mean.”

“Yeah, of course,” Sapnap answers. He turns to George with a genuine smile that’s quickly replaced with a teasing smirk. “I’m picking what we watch, though.”

“You picked last time!”

“Well, _technically_ I picked a _TV_ _show_ last time, so —”

“Technically you’re a massive _dumbass._ ” 

“Fuck you, George,” says Sapnap, doing his best to look wounded. “ _Dumbass_.”

* * *

It’s nice and quiet when Dream arrives. The hum of the heater in the locker room, the light puffs of his exhale, the _clunk_ of his hockey stick as it hits the floor. No one else is here, just like it should be.

He’s only forty-five minutes early to hockey practice, as always. No big deal.

That is, until he opens the doors to the ice rink. _Then_ it becomes a big deal.

Because there’s someone already there — someone graceful, someone elegant, gliding and twirling across the ice rhythmically.

Dream scrambles to put his helmet on and double checks the clasp for good measure. When he walks in, the figure skater doesn’t notice him, too enthralled in his practice to notice him.

George is dressed in all black, from his gloves to his pants to his form-fitting t-shirt — a clear deviation from the regular clothes he wears during informal practices. Arms stretched out, he skates backwards into a step sequence: legs bent, then the left leg outstretched behind him, then swung back up to turn counter-clockwise on his right foot.

Dream figures that he should probably make George aware of his presence so they don’t get a repeat of the first time they met, but he can’t bring himself to interrupt whatever it is that George has going on. 

George skates forward and into a spin. His right leg extended and parallel to the ice, his torso facing up towards the ceiling. He finishes the spin with a few more upright rotations and glides to a stop, posing at the end with his arms up.

The sound of blades against ice comes to a halt, plunging the stadium into silence. George groans loudly and digs his palms into his eyes.

“That was really good,” says Dream, sincere, stepping up to open the gate.

George turns at the sound of his voice and moves closer. “Hello. You think?”

“Of course,” Dream replies, and the gate opens with a loud _thunk._ “I’ve said it before! You’re talented.”

“I know I can do better, though.” George’s lips are pulled into a tight grimace, his forehead creased with worry.

“Well, there’s always room for improvement no matter what,” suggests Dream encouragingly, “but it doesn’t take away from your talent.”

George gives a little smile. “Thanks,” he says, quietly.

Dream frowns. “Is there something wrong?”

“No,” says George, lying through his teeth. And then, even more unconvincingly: “Everything is good. I’m good.” He flexes his gloved hands, clenching and unclenching them.

Dream stares at him through his visor. “Okay,” he goes, all slow and doubtful.

They stand there for a moment, silent — Dream takes the opportunity to scrutinize George, looking for a possible explanation for his strange mood. His heart drops to his stomach. George didn’t see him without his helmet on, did he? 

George awkwardly turns his head to look behind him, avoiding eye contact.

“I’m gonna go over there,” announces George slowly, pointing a thumb back at the other side of the rink. 

“Wait!” Dream grabs George’s skinny, pale arm. George looks at him quizzically, dark eyes filled with confusion. “Uh,” sounds Dream, “are you sure there’s nothing wrong?”

“It’s fine, it’s nothing important.” George waves a hand to emphasise his point, looking off to the side. He can’t lie to save his life.

Dream tilts his head. “Come on, you can tell me,” he presses. “I’ve been told that I’m a _very_ good listener.”

George takes a deep breath, inhaling the cold air, and looks down at his skates. “Okay,” he says. “Let’s sit down. I’m tired.”

Dream skates back to the gate to sit in the stands, but George stays where he is and stares at him blankly. “C’mon.” Dream gestures for George to follow.

“Not in the chairs,” says George petulantly, “here. On the ice.”

“On the _ice_?”

“Yeah,” George confirms, skating out to the centre circle of the rink. “Like when I was really young, I used to just sit on the ice when I got tired during my lessons.”

“Your coach let you do that?” Dream scoffs.

George plops down on the ground and stretches out his legs. “No,” he answers with a grin.

Rolling his eyes, Dream hesitantly takes a seat. The ice is uncomfortably hard and chilly underneath him. “I am literally going to freeze my ass off.”

“You’re so _dramatic_ ,” says George, laughing light and clear out loud.

“Okay.” Dream shifts, getting himself comfortable as he can get. “What’s going on?”

George looks up at the ceiling, rests his hands between his legs. “This — this is —” He sighs. “I’ve just been really stressed lately, and it sucks because this is just the start of the semester and stuff hasn’t even started picking up yet.”

Dream breathes out in relief — he knows George is telling the truth, and it has nothing to do with him, thankfully.

“Stressed about what?” asks Dream, once he’s taken the time to compose himself.

George bites at his lower lip. It’s swollen and red. “Well, for figure skating, I stayed late today after practice to work on my form for my layover camel spin. And it’s okay — I can _do_ it, but it’s not as good as I’d like it to be.”

“I’m sure you can get it,” says Dream reassuringly. “You just need to keep working at it.”

“But that’s not really the _problem_ ,” George groans. He runs a hand through his hair.

“The problem?”

“The problem is that stuff keeps piling up. I spend, like, all day in classes and all night here. When I stay late after practice, my assignments start piling up and I’m too tired to pay attention in class. When I spend more time working on classwork, my skating doesn’t improve.” George rests his chin in one hand and draws circles onto the ice with his other. “It’s impossible.”

Dream can understand. He’s felt it — the same stress that George is feeling — time and time again, except with hockey. Between his own studies, personal projects, and hockey, he’s not got much time left over.

“I get it.” Dream nudges George’s leg lightly, and George looks up at him through layers of dark lashes. “How are your grades and assignments?”

George purses his lips. “Good enough, I suppose. I procrastinated my English assignment until this morning though, and I had to wake up early to finish it in time. My friend Clay even had to help me edit it.”

Dream’s breath catches in his throat, and suddenly the air feels much colder than before. “Cool,” he squeaks out. 

Things are very much not cool.

“Yeah,” says George, drawing more patterns into the ice. 

Clearing his throat, Dream says, “Well, you’ve got people to help you out, right? Like tutors and coaches. And your friends can help with assignments too. I’m sure your coaches will understand if you’re busy with classes. Those do come first.” He fiddles with the strings on his hockey skates. “Don’t stress, George. I know that sounds dumb, but if anyone can pull it off, it’s you.”

George looks up at Dream. Tilts his head so far it’s nearly sideways. “Yeah,” he repeats, “you’re right.”

Dreams stabilizes himself on the slippery ice and stands up. He offers a hand to George and helps pull him to his feet. George's hand is practically frozen from touching the ice.

“Thank you, Dream,” says George, dusting himself off.

“No problem. Hopefully that made you feel a little better,” replies Dream sincerely.

“It did.” Then, George opens his mouth, closes it. Furrows his eyebrows. “By the way,” he starts, “I was meaning to ask you about your —”

And before he can finish: “Dream!”

It’s the hockey coach — practice is starting soon, and he’s already here getting ready for the rest of the team to arrive.

“Nevermind, that’s my cue to leave,” announces George, already making his way to the gate. “I stayed _way_ too late today.”

“Bye,” Dream calls out. “I’ll see you later.”

The gate swings open. George pivots to face Dream and smiles.

“Bye,” he says, “thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you didn't see at the start of the chapter, shoutout to amazing artist [westywallowing on tumblr](https://westywallowing.tumblr.com) or [on twitter](https://twitter.com/westywallowing/status/1356469642273898496?s=20) who [drew figure skater george](https://westywallowing-archive.tumblr.com/post/641977758042537984/figure-skater-george-doodles-from-figure-skates) SPECIFICALLY FOR THIS FIC!! i was so happy when i saw it, it made me feel so special and glad that you guys like this fic so much :') 
> 
> dream and george don't like coffee but i imagine that doing school all day and skating all night is exhausting so they just need it sometimes to function
> 
> speaking of coffee i stayed up late to finish this so i will need some tomorrow.
> 
> thank u for reading !! comments + kudos are greatly appreciated :] i read and reply to every single comment!!
> 
> lastly: stream roadtrip by dream ft. pmbata
> 
> goodnight im going to bed
> 
> EDIT (FEBRUARY 15 2021): hii everyone!! i know a lot of u are patiently waiting for the next chapter. do not fear. i am currently working diligently on chapter five and i expect it to be out sometime in the next week! you can follow me on my very newly created [twitter](https://twitter.com/effervescentlie) account for updates and sneak peeks (i've already got a few tweets up). have a nice day !


	5. tutoring and hockey sticks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re holding it like a golf club,” Dream points out when George tries holding the new hockey stick. “Try putting your left hand further down.”
> 
> “Like this?” George asks.
> 
> “Uh, no,” says Dream. He hesitates, then takes his gloves off and tucks them under his arm. “Here.”
> 
> Dream reaches out and takes George’s hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am kinda surprised this fic is getting so much attention hehe!! thankyouthankyouthankyou for 8000 hits and 700 kudos :]

October comes and goes quickly, and before George knows it the calendar is on the cusp of flipping to November. He spends most of his days working on assignments, sleeping whenever possible, and going to practice.

The weather’s getting chillier now — it’s comfortingly warm in the daytime under the burning sun, yet brisk and cool in the dark of night when most students in Amana Hall are long asleep. George learned that the hard way when he spent much too long at the ice rink after practice and nearly caught a cold while walking back to his dorm in nothing but a hoodie and light pants.

Sapnap had warned him prior, of course, citing something about never underestimating the fluidity of Canadian weather, but George had foolishly shrugged him off. Despite the windchill, George grit his teeth and toughed it out on the walk back in an attempt to save his pride.

Saturday’s weather is, thankfully, slightly warmer. On the running track by the university’s athletic centre, two figures jog at a steady pace following bright white lines dividing the track into lanes. In the centre of the track lies previously deep green grass, now tinged a dull yellow-grey from the cold weather.

George huffs out little puffs of warm air with each step. His running shoes hit the rubber ground underneath him in a pattern of _left, right, left, right, left, right_ , a pitter-patter in tune with his thumping heart. 

“Holy shit,” Sapnap heaves in gasping breaths, slowing his jog. “Stop.”

George eases his pace to a halt and turns back to look at Sapnap. “You okay?”

Sapnap bends himself over, legs slightly bent and hands on his knees. “What does it look like?” he asks between laboured pants. 

Once he’s caught his breath, George beckons for him to walk the rest of their lap. George doesn’t blame him for the sudden halt — the soles of his feet ache, and he’d be lying if he didn’t say his lungs were starting to tire as well. He’s been neglecting his off-ice practice recently, and it shows.

Apparently, Sapnap has been doing the same.

“My stamina’s all fucked up,” Sapnap says between gasps for air.

“When’s the last time you went on a run?” George croaks. He winces at the sound and takes a swig of water to clear his throat.

Sapnap pulls his bandana off. It flutters in the wind like a flag before he stuffs it deep inside the pocket of his gym shorts. “Too long.”

They arrive at the end of the track, marked by a horizontal line painted thick on the ground. George stretches out his body, bending down to grab at his ankles now that his legs are all warmed up. The exercise has made him barely feel the cold from the slight breeze in the air.

“What’s the time?” George asks from the floor.

“Four minutes twelve seconds.” Sapnap presses on the timer on his phone. “This one doesn’t count, though. I slowed it down.”

“Alright,” George gets back up and rolls his shoulders back. “Let’s go again.”

“ _Again_?” Sapnap scoffs. “We’re skaters, not runners, George.”

“I can do better!” George insists, arms tangled in a bicep stretch. “Time me.”

“No.”

“Time me, Sapnap!”

“No!”

“One more,” George begs. He holds up a finger to emphasize his point and waggles it in front of his face, eyebrows slanted up to plead. “This is the last one, I promise.”

Sapnap shakes his head, and George seizes the opportunity to snatch his phone from out of his hands. His fingers close around the device, but before he can get away with it, the phone’s stolen back from him again.

“We are going to _eat_.” Sapnap shoves his phone in his pocket away from George’s hands, now reaching towards Sapnap with grabby motions. “That was our _sixth lap._ It’s lunchtime. I am going to go get _food._ ”

“I’m not hungry,” George lies. The truth is that his stomach’s been grumbling since lap number three.

“I have a team meeting after lunch!” Sapnap exclaims, a little impatiently. “I’m going to leave with or without you, George.”

George rolls his eyes. “Fuck you, Sapnap,” he gripes.

Sapnap turns and walks off the track back towards the heart of campus. George, begrudgingly, follows him anyways.

* * *

Afternoon sunlight streams through the big, arching windows at Willis Library and illuminates worn, browned book pages slotted between slender fingers. George sets the book down harshly, glancing around the library. There’s a librarian poring over a historical drama novel, a short-haired girl typing furiously into her laptop, a scrawny boy taking notes from his biology textbook. And then, a tall, blond guy making his way across the room.

Clay walks towards him with his backpack and phone in hand. “Hello,” he says, and takes a seat across from George at the desk. He takes care not to scratch the chair against the floor, lifting it rather than pushing it out. The floor creaks lowly when he sits, a telltale sign of the library’s old age.

“Hello, Clay,” George replies. “You’re late.” He means it to come off as teasing, but it sounds more snide than intended.

“Sorry,” Clay says, placing his backpack on the wooden chair next to him. “I got held up with something.” He shifts in his seat and turns to face George with a grin. “You finished the book?”

“I did,” confirms George. He holds up his copy of _The Sand Castle_ and then pushes it across the desk.

“And?” Clay presses excitedly. “What did you think about it?”

“It was good. I liked it.”

Clay cranes his neck forward. “You _liked_ it?” 

“Yes?” says George, confused. He’s feeling strangely attacked.

“Okay, what specifically did you like about it?” Clay asks slowly. George thinks he sounds vaguely like his old English teacher, poking and prodding at his unfortunately very vague understanding of the text.

He racks through his brain for an answer and chews at the inside of his cheek in thought. “I liked… the whole life story, I guess.”

“You _guess_?” Clay echoes incredulously, face knitted into something of disbelief.

George puts his head in his hands. “I’m not good at English,” he groans. “I told you.”

It’s quite ironic, George thinks, that the one person out of the two who’s actually English is utterly terrible at the subject. That’s not to say he isn’t smart, because George knows he is — you don’t get into computer science without a brain — but his mind works differently than Clay’s, processes words on paper _systematically_ rather than _creatively._

“You’re not _that_ bad at English,” Clay reassures, thumbing at the corners of the book pages. 

George lets his arms hit the mahogany desk with a _thud_. “Thanks.”

“Your biography analysis was really good.” Clay pushes the worn biography back across the desk towards George. “I liked it.”

“Thanks to you,” George says pitifully, flipping the book around so he can glance over the cover. He pulls at the chain on the table lamp next to him, casting a warm glow over the book and Clay’s face.

“Me?”

“Your notes,” George continues, “and your editing.”

Clay pulls down the sleeves of his hoodie from where they were bunched up at his elbows. “I can always help you more, if you’d like,” he offers.

George looks up. Meets Clay’s eyes. Lifts up an eyebrow, and asks, “Yeah?”

“Of course,” Clay says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Whenever I have time. I can help you with coding stuff, too, if you need it.”

George knows that life is unfair — some people are just born with natural talent and skill. This simply confirms it.

“How are you so _good at everything_ ,” he whines a little too loudly. The librarian shoots him a dirty look, and George gives an apologetic smile.

Clay chuckles, as if amused at George’s apparent misfortune. The lamp’s light casts shadows against his sharp nose. “I study a lot.”

“I can tell,” quips George. He rests his chin in his left palm. 

“You have to help me out with something, though,” Clay announces. The library’s surrounding guests whip their heads around to glare at the two — Clay offers an awkward wave and whispers a hushed “sorry”.

“I’m listening,” George half-whispers, half-yells. “Go on.”

Clay leans slightly over the desk so he can hear better and hisses, “I tutor you in Literary Nonfiction. You read more books.”

George visibly recoils and slinks back into his seat. “What is with you and your obsession with books?”

“I’m an English major,” Clay deadpans. “That’s my thing.”

George takes the time to consider his offer. Narrows his eyes. Weighs the pros and the cons in his head. Scrutinizes Clay’s face for any hint of malice; there’s none.

“Okay,” he says slowly, “Fine.” Because as much as he hates English, George isn’t an idiot. He’s not about to refuse an offer for help that he desperately needs.

To that, all Clay has to say is “Awesome.” He pulls out a small journal from his backpack and props it up in the gap between his stomach and the desk. “When can you meet up next?”

George checks his calendar on his phone — it’s jam packed with classes and practice, but he can make a little bit of time. “Tomorrow? 3 PM?”

“Works for me.” Clay produces a pen from his bag and jots something down, staring intently at his schedule. “Can we, uh, meet here?”

“Sure,” says George. He quickly types the event into his phone, mimicking Clay’s organizational skills.

Clay shuts the journal tightly and drops it back inside his bag. “I’ll see you later, then?”

George blinks. “That’s it?”

“What?”

“You aren’t going to ask me to give a book report on the biography or something?” George asks, tracing the creases on the paperback book cover. He’s only half-joking, toeing the line between genuine surprise and teasing.

“Well, I mean —” Clay starts, and then, quieter: “I thought you hated English.”

“I mean, a little bit,” George replies thoughtfully. “I just haven’t fulfilled _my end_ of the bargain yet, you know. But if you don’t want me to…”

“No, no —” Clay breaks into a broad grin. “I wanna hear your thoughts.”

George smiles, small and sweet. “Okay.” He flips the biography open to the first page.

Suddenly, Clay reaches out and lightly taps at the book. “Uh, sorry,” he says, pulling his arm back, “but maybe we should do this, like, somewhere else.”

Clay widens his eyes subtly and turns his head to gesture around the grand library — there’s a nearby girl stuffing earbuds into her ears, switching seats to somewhere quieter, and an older professor glaring at them from over the screen of his rickety laptop. 

George grimaces. “Yeah.” He slips his bag on and gets up, gently pushing his chair back in. “Let’s go.”

* * *

“And remember, the fall invitational is coming up soon, so keep practicing your routines and I’ll see you all on Monday.”

George nods and watches as his coaches and teammates slowly file off of the ice one by one. He, however, stays where he is and kicks at the little piles of shaved ice by his feet.

“Staying back again, George?” his coach calls out, one skate on the ice and the other halfway through the gate.

It’s just the two of them left behind. The last skater lets the door leading from the rink to the hallway slam shut loudly, and the sound reverberates off of the cloudy plexiglass.

“Uh, yeah,” George replies.

His coach makes a sound of disapproval and shakes her head. “Don’t overwork yourself, okay? Take a break if you need it.”

George gives a comforting smile. “Don’t worry, I will,” he says, waving goodbye as the coach steps out and shuts the gate behind her.

The stadium is dead quiet, save for the hum of the ventilation system and scraping noises of blades against ice. Bored, George skates around aimlessly, swinging his arms around and letting the chilled air whiz past him.

He looks behind him, arms outstretched, and does two backward crossovers, reaching out with his inside leg and cutting through with his outside leg. Then, he pushes into a lazy version of a scratch spin. After a few rotations, George crosses his feet and tucks his arms in close to his chest, then exits the spin gliding on one foot.

When he slowly comes to a stop, he spots Dream coming into the stadium from across the rink.

“Dream,” George says in a sing-song voice. He skates closer and lets his arms hang low by his side. “Hello. Fancy seeing you here.”

The hockey player unlocks the gate and steps onto the ice. The blade of his stick and the sharpness of his skates _clack_ against the ice loudly. 

“Hi,” he says, sounding enthusiastic. “Fancy seeing you here too.”

There’s an air of awkwardness surrounding them, stuffy despite the noticeable chill. George hadn’t meant to bombard Dream with all his stresses — he would’ve been perfectly happy to keep them to himself — but Dream had insisted that he open up.

He swallows. “Splitting the rink again?” George asks. He starts to skate backwards towards the left side of the stadium.

Dream holds out a hand and signals for George to stop. “No, no, wait,” he stammers. “Stay here.”

“Here?” echoes George, pointing downwards.

“Hold this.” Dream shoves his hockey stick into George’s hands and dashes back towards the gate.

George is left standing in the centre of the rink, utterly confused. He looks down at his hands, loosely gripped around the wooden handle of the stick. The paint on the end of the stick is all scratched up and dented from use. He rests the tip of the blade on the floor and swings it back and forth, listening to the quiet sounds of it scraping against the ice.

There’s a loud _bang_ on the other side of the door outside the stadium. George watches as it slowly creaks open, then quickly swings shut — until the door’s blocked by something in its way.

“What the —” George starts, but the words die on his tongue as he realizes what’s going on.

A tall hockey net is forcibly shoved through the doorway, and from behind it emerges Dream. He pushes the net forward across the rubber flooring and then shuffles in behind it.

“Help me open the gate,” he calls out, hoisting up the hockey net with one arm.

George skates over and does as he’s told, holding the gate open and standing to the side. Dream sets the net down first, letting it slide across the ice, and then steps in after it. 

“Usually I would get it through the Zamboni entrance, but my coach isn’t here and I don’t have the key to the door,” Dream rants. The unprompted explanation spills out of him like gushing water.

George shuts the gate and turns to stare at the hockey player with a bewildered look. “A hockey net?”

“Yeah,” answers Dream. He pushes the net over to one side of the rink.

“For what?” George asks, amused. He moves to get a closer look and watches as Dream kneels on the ice to fasten the net in place, just behind a thin line and a bright blue semicircle.

Dream stands once he’s done and picks up a black hockey puck from where it was resting on top of the net. He tosses it up, then catches it in his hands. “You said a few weeks ago that you could score the same goal as me, but there weren’t any nets.”

“I did,” says George slowly.

Dream opens his palm and lets the puck fall to the ground. It clatters and slides across the ice, landing right at George’s feet. 

And although George can’t see Dream’s face, he can hear the grin in his voice when Dream says: “Here’s a net. Prove it.”

George scrunches up his nose and shakes his head. “Uh,” he hesitates, “no thanks.”

“You said you would!” exclaims Dream despairingly.

“Well, I actually said _maybe_ ,” George says. He nudges the puck back towards Dream with the hockey stick.

“Why are you backing out?” Dream asks, rambunctious. His head tilts up slightly as he talks, and just beneath his face shield George can see a tiny sliver of his chin before it’s covered by the tinted plastic again.

“I’m not backing out,” retorts George, but it falls on deaf ears.

“You’re just… too scared.”

Perhaps George shouldn’t have been so full of talk, but his pride is too big to surrender now and admit defeat. He shakes his head.

“I’m not scared,” he insists, and bangs the blade of the hockey stick against the ground like he’s stomping his foot.

“Then why won’t you just _try_ ,” Dream complains.

“No,” says George, petulant.

“Come on,” the hockey player groans. “You can just do it from here. No goalie.” Dream skates a little ways away and points to the ice with a gloved hand.

It’s a spot directly in front of the net, just a few metres away from the goal line. From here, it’s a clear and easy shot to get the puck into the net. Just a flick of the wrist and a strong swing, right?

George sighs in exasperation. Rolls his eyes. Takes a deep breath, and says, “Okay, I’ll do it.”

Dream laughs beneath his helmet, celebratory and light. “Yay,” he replies, and gently kicks the puck.

It lands at George’s feet yet again and hits against his skate, dusty black clashing with creamy white. Dream skates to the side of the net, giving George his position. George pushes the puck to his side and positions it in front of the blade of the hockey stick.

He can feel Dream’s judging eyes boring into him. George takes a deep breath. Bends his knees slightly. Focuses on the centre of the net, and, with all the force he can muster, swings his arms and takes the shot.

Turns out that it’s really not just a flick of the wrist or a strong swing at all. The puck launches through the air, thankfully, so fast that George can barely see the blur of movement — 

And hits Dream square in the chest.

“Ow,” he says plainly.

George grimaces. “Are you okay?” He skates towards him, eyebrows raised in concern.

Dream bends down slightly and rubs at the spot where the puck hit him. George desperately hopes that he hasn’t hurt the star hockey player, placing a shaky hand on his shoulder. Dream remains silent and takes a deep breath.

And then, loudly, he shouts, “I told you!”

“Are you _kidding_ me?” George shrills. He snatches his arm back. “What is wrong with you?”

“I knew it,” Dream announces proudly. “I knew it! You can’t play hockey.”

“What is the matter with you?” George groans. Despite the words, there’s a bright smile on his face.

Dream cracks up again, muffled by his helmet. “Listen, listen,” he starts. His voice is croaky from laughter, and he takes a moment to compose himself. “I will help you,” he announces, slightly out of breath.

“Help me with _what_?” George scoffs sharply. “Hockey?”

“It’ll be fun,” Dream pleads.

George takes a moment to contemplate. He’s supposed to be practicing right now on his side of the rink while Dream does his own drills on the other side, like always. 

But perhaps he’ll take a break for tonight.

“Okay,” George says. “I suppose.”

Dream rubs his hands together. “Okay, hold the hockey stick?”

George brings the blade of the stick down to the ground. He clasps both his hands tightly around the wooden shaft of the stick, his left hand just below his right. Dream tilts his head, observing his form.

“You’re left handed,” Dream says. “My stick is right handed.”

Frankly, George didn’t even know it mattered. He blinks, then juts out his bottom lip in thought. “Oh. So now what?”

“I’ll get you another one,” Dream calls out, turning back towards the gate. He steps out and then through the door, leaving George standing on the ice alone yet again.

It’s suffocatingly silent without Dream here. The cold air envelops George all over. He fidgets with the hem on his gloves and smooths out the wrinkles on his figure skating shirt. 

When Dream returns, the two exchange hockey sticks. While the right handed stick curves left, George notices that the left handed one curves right.

“You’re holding it like a golf club,” Dream points out when George tries holding the new stick. “Try putting your left hand further down.”

“Like this?” George asks.

“Uh, no,” says Dream. He hesitates, then takes his gloves off and tucks them under his arm. “Here.”

Dream reaches out and takes George’s hand. He slides George’s left hand halfway down the hockey stick and then grasps both of his hands to change their angle, lifting the blade of the stick off the ground. 

Despite the temperature, Dream’s hands are comfortingly warm — so much so that George can feel the heat burning through his own gloves, hot enough to evaporate ice. When Dream retracts, the warmth remains, like a crackling fire before it slowly fades away. George takes a deep breath, not used to such contact.

A clear of the throat. “There,” Dream affirms. “Like that.”

It’s strange, really. George has never seen Dream so quiet, but he shakes away the thoughts, shutting his eyes and willing them to go away.

“Okay,” says George. He looks down at his hands, firmly gripping the wooden handle of the hockey stick. “Now what?”

“Uh, try taking a shot,” Dream suggests. His voice is encouraging, yet with a tinge of something unrecognizable.

George lines up in front of the net again and places the puck down in front of him. His stick taps against the ice, then the edge of the puck. He bites his lip and furrows his eyebrows in concentration. Then, with a deep breath, he brings the hockey stick up and quickly back down to take his shot.

The puck cuts across the air faster, stronger, in the right direction this time. George watches as it flies through its trajectory, waiting for it to hit against the back of the net — 

Until it ricochets off of the scratched ice rink boards just a few metres away from the goal. It lands on the ice and slides backwards as pathetically slow as it can until coming to a stop.

“Dream,” George groans despairingly, “ _help me_.”

“That was better than last time!”

George ticks up an eyebrow. Ticks down his hockey stick. “What, because I didn’t hit you this time?”

Dream chuckles. “Yes, because you didn’t hit me this time.”

* * *

In Willis Library the next day, George covers his mouth to stifle his yawn. He’s sitting in a quiet corner, hidden behind layers of towering bookshelves. When he inhales, he smells old paper; when he exhales, little particles of dust dance in front of his face.

He struggles to keep his eyelids open, the letters on the book in front of him dancing and swaying in his wavering vision. It’s surprising, really, that he’s managed to stay awake for all his classes today.

But now, here, stretching out his joints in his chair like a sleepy cat, George has to fight the urge to go back to his dorm and _nap._ Lazily, he checks his phone — there’s a text from Clay.

_Clay: Hey I’m on my way_

_Sent 2 minutes ago_

George puts his phone back down, slows his breathing, rests his head in his palm. Clay is still a few minutes away from Willis Library — it’s perfectly plausible for him to get a couple minutes of sleep in and wake up refreshed, ready to learn. 

He slumps his head down onto the desk and tucks his arms underneath. The beginnings of another yawn tug at his lips, and he nestles his face deeper into the crook of his arm, shifts his feet to a more comfortable position, lets his heavy eyelids flutter shut — 

And before he knows it, he’s asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so glad to get back to this fic :D struggled with writer's block for a week and procrastinated by writing other fics but yesterday i sat down and banged out like 2000 words out of 4046
> 
> please please comment down below because i love to see your reactions, especially for this chapter bc some BIG stuff happened
> 
> i appreciate the support more than u know :] shoutout to all my regular commenters and readers -- u guys are the real MVPs and motivate me to keep writing
> 
> follow me on my newly created [twitter](https://twitter.com/effervescentlie) where i will be talking to u guys and, starting with the next chapter, will be posting a few sneak peeks :DD


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